I pull myself together enough to give Dave a wave and a smile, getting a very enthusiastic one in return.

“Can’t wait for Saturday,” he excitedly declares, holding up the wedding invitation he’s kept on his desk since I delivered it to him months ago.

“Me either,” I reply with a smile that literally makes my cheeks ache. But it’s hard to not react that way when someone mentions Saturday.

I step into the empty elevator, hitting the lobby button before I lean back against the wall. Glancing down at my left hand, I study my engagement ring, which I find myself doing a lot lately. I never take it off: not before bed, not while I bake, never. I think it’s common for girls to imagine what their ideal engagement ring would look like. To have a specific diamond cut in mind or at least know whether they want platinum or gold. But I never thought about it. I never once had a preference until Reese slipped this ring on my finger in the middle of my bakery kitchen. This elegant, princess-cut diamond is the ring I was always meant to wear. It’s the ring I would’ve picked out myself, but the fact that Reese designed this specifically for me is the main reason I adore it. I can picture him sitting down with the jeweler, having an exact idea in mind and not settling for anything less. I can also imagine how messy his hair looked during that design process.

The elevator stops a few floors down and even though I’m already leaning against the wall and giving plenty of room to whoever is about to enter, I move closer to the corner anyway. As the doors slide open, I’m too busy admiring my ring to register who steps on. But I sense it. I feel the tightness forming in my gut and slowly lift my eyes and lock on to the reasoning behind it.

“Well, isn’t this a sweet surprise.”

“Fuck,” I utter under my breath through gritted teeth, keeping my eyes down and making sure I’m still completely covered. The last thing I need is this grade-A asshole to get a look at what’s underneath my trench coat. Out of my peripheral vision, I see him move to the opposite side of the elevator, keeping his full attention on me.

“Is it raining outside?” he asks, and even though I’m not looking at him, I can tell he’s wearing that eerie smile that makes my skin crawl. “Because when I arrived here, it was sunny and close to seventy-five degrees out. You must be burning up in that, baby.”

Baby. God, this creeper makes me nauseous.

When I don’t acknowledge him, he moves closer to me and I instinctively back further into the corner. “Are you hot, Dylan? ‘Cause you look hot to me. Need a hand slipping that off?”

At that absurd question, I turn my head and glare at him. “If you step any closer to me, I’ll be the only one leaving this elevator with a set of balls.” He either doesn’t have a pair, or he doesn’t value them, because my threat doesn’t stop him from moving quickly and bracing himself with a hand on either side of my face. His body is pressed against mine and if this intrusion isn’t enough to make me sick, his erection digging into my stomach pushes me over the edge. I clench my teeth and flatten myself further against the wall. “Back the fuck up.”

“And if I don’t? Removing my balls would require touching them, so by all means.” He lifts a finger, trailing it down the side of my face to my neck. “Did you like my flower?”

My breathing was already labored, but now I’m borderline-hyperventilating. That fucking flower. I stare up into his eyes, my fists shaking at my sides.

“I was planning on stopping by your shop this week. My father has been craving your tarts and I’ve been craving something, as well. Think you could fill both our orders?”

“Stay the fuck away from my shop,” I hiss as my nails cut into the skin of my palms.

“Or what?” he asks, leaning closer and bracing himself on the wall next to my head. “Nothing stands in the way of what I want, Dylan. Not even your boyfriend.”

“What is it? What is your weird-ass obsession with me? I don’t want you. I never will. So get the fuck over yourself and find someone else to creep the hell out.”

I push against him but he pushes back harder, flattening me against the wall. He tilts his head down, brushing his nose against my forehead. “You want to know what it is about you?”

“I want you to get the fuck off me.”

“Then do something about it,” he snarls in my face.

I could slap this asshole, but I’m suddenly flooded with the urge to do something that’ll hurt a hell of a lot worse. Grabbing his shoulders, his eyes enlarge and he drops his finger from my neck as I fist his dress shirt and swiftly bring my knee up, striking him right where I need to with enough force to bring him to his knees.

“Awhhhh, fuckkkkk.” He’s on his side, rolling in a fetal position with his hands clutching the balls I just crushed.

The elevator comes to a stop at that exact moment, allowing me to step over him and move toward the opening doors. When I hear laughter, I look back at him over my shoulder, seeing his face contorted into a mix of agony and mischief.

“That,” he says through a faint voice before blowing out forcefully through pursed lips. “Fuck, yes. That’s what it is.” He laughs again, but it’s snuffed out by more groans as he clutches his groin.

I slam my hand on the elevator door, holding it open. “Stay the fuck away from my shop. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of Chicago before Reese, my fiancé, does a lot worse than what I just did.” I glance down at his crotch. “Good luck having kids, douchebag.”

I step out of the elevator, hearing the doors ding close behind me. Hmm. Kneeing assholes in the balls is just as satisfying as slapping them across the face. Maybe a bit more.

Thanks a lot, Bryce. You’ve just given me a new favorite go-to move.

25

I’m putting every safety feature of my new car to the test as I drive back to my bakery. I’m fuming, more mad than I can remember ever being as I weave in and out of traffic and keep the pedal pressed against the floorboard. Thank God this car has those sensors that alert you when you’re too close to a vehicle in front of you, because I’m definitely not paying attention to prevent that on my own. My mind is elsewhere, the vision of Bryce cornering me in the elevator and the feel of his finger against my neck overwhelming my thoughts. I’ve never felt invaded like that before. Not even when Justin put his hands on me. And his hands left bruises. But this? How Bryce touched me? This was different.

I kept my cool for the most part in the moment, but now I’m feeling the aftershock of the encounter. My nerves are completely shot, my chest is so tight I’m finding it difficult to take in a deep breath, and the urge to consume the one thing I’ve been told to avoid until Saturday is stronger than ever. I know I have to tell Reese about this, and that’s making my anxiety level rocket off the charts. It’s one thing if Bryce verbally creeps me out; that I can handle. But he put his hands on me. Well, a finger, but still, he touched me. And I’m no longer worried that Reese might do something that could get him into trouble, because I know he’ll be smart about it and he deserves to know what just happened. I’d sure as hell want to know if some bitch laid a finger on Reese. And I’d be pissed if he kept that information from me, so I’m going to tell him.