Sweet Obsession
Page 56
If I had any sick leave left, which I don’t, thanks to my bout of pneumonia this past winter, I would fake an illness and head home instead of back to the bakery.
I don’t want to talk . . . to anyone.
I’m expecting Joey and Dylan to bombard me with questions and clever little comments when I step through the door, but surprisingly, they leave me alone. I don’t have to ask. It’s strange. Maybe they can hear my tangle of thoughts. Maybe they received a call from Vince and he’s filled them in on my enormously unprofessional outburst, or maybe I just look two seconds away from needing a straitjacket.
If I yell at one more person today, someone might actually have me committed.
Whatever their reasoning for backing off, I seem to settle in my solitary. My mind grows quiet and I busy myself with work. The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of baking timers and detailed decorating.
At home, after inhaling some leftovers, I pop my headphones in and listen to my playlist while I change my nail color. I stay in my room all night with the door shut. No one disturbs me. Smart move on their part. I am still irritated with Joey, though not as much as I was before my run-in with Mason, and hardly at all after I make a decision about him while I’m lying on my bed, reading through our old text messages.
Mason: I apologize for staring at your chest like that this morning. Did your mates notice?
Me: . . . . . .
Mason: What does that mean? Yes?
Me: That was my ‘one second while I ask them’ text. They didn’t notice. But now they know you were all up in my boobs and will be watching for it tomorrow. Your cover has been blown.
Mason: Did you notice?
Me: Yes.
Mason: Hmm. I like to think I’m pretty covert with my obsession, but your tits in that top did me in. I nearly lost my mind a little.
Me: Really? I don’t think they look any better today than they normally do. I am wearing a new bra. Maybe that’s it.
Mason: What store did you purchase it from? The bra and the shirt. I want to send a thank you gift.
Me: Shut up.
Mason: Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or jewellery? With a note attached detailing my appreciation.
Mason: I suppose I should go to church and thank God as well. Your tits are some of his best work.
Me: Well, while you’re there, go ahead and give him props from me.
Mason: For what, sweetheart? My cock?
Me: Yup! Your PERFECT cock. I’ll say a few hallelujahs for that masterpiece. I’ll even drop to my knees . . . to worship.
Me: And by worship I mean suck your dick, just in case that didn’t translate in Aussie speak.
Mason: Right. Getting hard. Not a good thing before class. I’ll see you later, yeah? Take care of those tits for me. If they need a good squeeze, I’m just across the street.
I muffle my laugh against my hand. I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.
I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose this.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.
It is the only thing that matters.
Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.
But I can’t stop smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.
After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.
The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.
I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.
God bless car chargers.
When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.
It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.
His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.
Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.
This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.
I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.
But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.
So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.
It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.
I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.
Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.
I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.
I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.
And one early this morning.
She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.
Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.
I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”
She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.
“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.
I don’t want to talk . . . to anyone.
I’m expecting Joey and Dylan to bombard me with questions and clever little comments when I step through the door, but surprisingly, they leave me alone. I don’t have to ask. It’s strange. Maybe they can hear my tangle of thoughts. Maybe they received a call from Vince and he’s filled them in on my enormously unprofessional outburst, or maybe I just look two seconds away from needing a straitjacket.
If I yell at one more person today, someone might actually have me committed.
Whatever their reasoning for backing off, I seem to settle in my solitary. My mind grows quiet and I busy myself with work. The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of baking timers and detailed decorating.
At home, after inhaling some leftovers, I pop my headphones in and listen to my playlist while I change my nail color. I stay in my room all night with the door shut. No one disturbs me. Smart move on their part. I am still irritated with Joey, though not as much as I was before my run-in with Mason, and hardly at all after I make a decision about him while I’m lying on my bed, reading through our old text messages.
Mason: I apologize for staring at your chest like that this morning. Did your mates notice?
Me: . . . . . .
Mason: What does that mean? Yes?
Me: That was my ‘one second while I ask them’ text. They didn’t notice. But now they know you were all up in my boobs and will be watching for it tomorrow. Your cover has been blown.
Mason: Did you notice?
Me: Yes.
Mason: Hmm. I like to think I’m pretty covert with my obsession, but your tits in that top did me in. I nearly lost my mind a little.
Me: Really? I don’t think they look any better today than they normally do. I am wearing a new bra. Maybe that’s it.
Mason: What store did you purchase it from? The bra and the shirt. I want to send a thank you gift.
Me: Shut up.
Mason: Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or jewellery? With a note attached detailing my appreciation.
Mason: I suppose I should go to church and thank God as well. Your tits are some of his best work.
Me: Well, while you’re there, go ahead and give him props from me.
Mason: For what, sweetheart? My cock?
Me: Yup! Your PERFECT cock. I’ll say a few hallelujahs for that masterpiece. I’ll even drop to my knees . . . to worship.
Me: And by worship I mean suck your dick, just in case that didn’t translate in Aussie speak.
Mason: Right. Getting hard. Not a good thing before class. I’ll see you later, yeah? Take care of those tits for me. If they need a good squeeze, I’m just across the street.
I muffle my laugh against my hand. I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.
I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose this.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.
It is the only thing that matters.
Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.
But I can’t stop smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.
After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.
The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.
I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.
God bless car chargers.
When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.
It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.
His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.
Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.
This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.
I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.
But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.
So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.
It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.
I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.
Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.
I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.
I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.
And one early this morning.
She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.
Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.
I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”
She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.
“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.
