Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“We know him,” one of the ladies says coolly as she finishes a row in the mittens. I think she’s the one who said it would only be successful for a few months because of him.
“We’re opening a bakery tomorrow,” I continue.
“We just wanted to stop by and say hi and offer you a little gift,” he puts in.
Another woman arches her brow, her tone full of skepticism. “So you’re giving out free things? To the people of Cozy Valley?”
“We are, just to say hi. And if you want to stop by the bakery when it opens, we’d love to see you,” I add.
The lady making the beanie snorts. “What a great way to run a business. Giving everything away for free,” she says derisively.
Ouch. Why did I think this would be a good idea?
The woman behind the counter taps her needle against it. “Now, Dottie, take the cookies. It’s a gift, you old bird.”
Dottie, the woman working on the white fluffy hat, huffs, sets down her knitting and motions to me with a wrinkled finger. Corbin says nothing—just shoots me a look that says he’s got my back if I need him.
But I can do this. Even with nerves chasing me, I stride across their knitting circle and hand Dottie the box. “I hope you enjoy them,” I say.
“So you can trick us into coming in and buying more things,” she mutters.
I try to untangle her response, but then decide to say, “I’m just trying to be a good neighbor.”
Dottie stares at the box quizzically.
The lady making the sweater taps the box with her needles and admonishes her friend, saying, “Just open it. Maybe it’s good.”
Dottie hums doubtfully but takes a bite of a classic chocolate chip cookie. The corner of her lips quirks up. Her eyes dance. And she fights off a food moan.
I smother a grin. Yep, I’d recognize a food moan anywhere, even as she stifles it. I steal a glance at Corbin, who’s watching the scene with admiration.
Dottie mumbles around the crumbs. “It’s okay,” she says, begrudgingly.
“I’ll take that,” I say with a smile.
“It wasn’t a compliment,” she snaps.
“I know, but it wasn’t an insult either,” I say, with a happy shrug.
Corbin waves. “Goodbye, ladies. See you all tomorrow, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Dottie says.
“Oh, hush,” the owner tells her.
We leave, and when we’re on the street, I turn to Corbin, a burst of gratitude filling my chest. Gratitude for him, and, well, for me. “Thank you for not rushing in to save me. I needed to do that on my own.”
“I had a feeling. Plus, it was clearly important to you.”
The way he says that, with pride, makes my stomach flutter once again. I like that he knows when to save the day and when to let me try to save it myself.
Back at the bakery, that flutter kicks up several notches when he sets down the now-empty bags and gives me a once-over. Stopping at my hair, he lifts a hand and ever so tenderly runs a finger down a strand, like he’s never felt anything softer or silkier. “Your hair would look really nice with that ribbon tomorrow.”
My heart thunders. “I’ll wear it.”
If he stays a second longer, I’ll want to try out Remy’s Dirty Dog too. “And you need to go. You have a game tonight.”
“I know,” he says with some reluctance, then glances toward the street that’ll take him back to the city to play the sport he loves. “I should head out.”
“I’ll be rooting for you.”
“Just need to grab something,” he says, trotting upstairs.
I need to clean the kitchen anyway, so while he’s up there, I head for the sink where I left some bowls and the basting brush from the cinnamon rolls. I start with washing the brush, and I’m drying it with a dish towel when Corbin returns.
I turn off the water, and he stops a foot away, his gaze straying to the brush. He picks it up from the rack, considers it, then dries it off one more time with the dish towel.
“Just helping,” he says, his voice edged with a playful roughness.
“Are you now?”
“I like to help,” he says, leveling a hot and flirty gaze my way, one that sends a wave of heat rolling down my spine.
“I’ve noticed.”
“You have?”
“Yes,” I say, curious what he’s up to. He seems to have an agenda.
His eyes never stray from me. They’re molten, full of dirty ideas. Ideas that have been flickering since he walked in on me. Ideas I’m very curious about.
“Do you need help with anything else?” he asks, holding the basting brush, flicking the bristles against his long fingers.
Only with this ache between my thighs.
But I bite my lip so I don’t say that out loud.
He tilts his head, the corner of his lips quirking up in a tease. “What did you just not say, Mabel?”