Don’t Go Away Mad by Lacey Black
Chapter Five
Jasper
I’m irritated as fuck and can’t stop pacing the kitchen. Even whipping up some of my favorite dishes is no match to settle the uneasiness I feel in my entire body. Tension. Like I touched a fork to an electrical socket. I did that once when I was a kid, just to see what would happen. It was only the briefest touch, but it was enough to brand the shock and pain into my thick skull for life.
That’s how it feels being near Lyndee. There’s a hum, an electricity I can’t seem to get past, and if I’m being honest with myself, that’s why I’m so pissed. No one has ever affected me the way she does. She’s under my skin, and I can’t shake her.
I’ve had girlfriends in the past, yet when our relationships ran its course, I had no problem walking away. When it was done, it was done. Period. I never got worked up, never drowned my sorrows in liquor. But with Lyndee, I’m tempted to head to the bar and down shot after shot of something hard and smooth, something that’ll ensure I wake later with a killer headache and a bad attitude.
Why her?
Why does she affect me the way she does?
I guess if I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be wearing the tile down in my kitchen.
Needing a little space, I head to my office and shut the door. Petra is here, preparing for lunch, and humming a happy little tune. I just need quiet. Peace. Solitude. For five fucking minutes. White walls that don’t scream bright and chipper, all sunshine and happiness.
I shiver at the thought. I don’t mind color, and don’t deny her walls were cheerful and welcoming, but there’s something about bold and dark that screams professional. I guess that’s the difference between her business and my own. The yellow and purple was fitting in her bakery, while the dark woods and deep blue hues are perfect for us. Of course, that’s in the main restaurant. In my domain, it’s white. Crisp, clean white and industrial steel. I can see every splatter, every imperfection in my kitchen and on the plate. I have no room for messes back here.
I think back to Lyndee’s kitchen. It actually does somewhat resemble my own. White, clean, and shiny. It’s all new and ready to be used. A memory flashes through my mind, one of a certain brunette covered in flour and kneading dough. She used to love getting dirty, of getting right in the thick of whatever she was making, not even caring she was getting just as many ingredients on herself as she was her cooking surface.
That night I almost kissed her, she had flour in her hair and granules of sugar on her cheek.
I push the recollection from my mind and adjust my pants. Yes, I’m hard. So fucking hard it hurts. Just seeing her, thinking about that night does it to me every time, and now I’m just pissed. Pissed she still has this effect on my body. Pissed I still let her get under my skin. And even more pissed I stormed out of there in front of my friends. No way are they going to let it slide just how much she gets to me.
Fucking hell.
I wipe my hands over my face and drop into my desk chair. I quickly boot up my laptop, prepared to start a new vendor order, when a single click brings up the internet. From there, I type her name into the search engine.
What am I doing?
I ignore the inner voice in my head telling me to knock it off and get to work, but when the search results start popping up, I find myself falling down the rabbit hole of online information on one Lyndee Gibson.
First up is her social media pages. There are a few posts, a handful of pictures, but nothing too recent. The last photo shared was one of her and her brother at a Reds game. Dustin looks ecstatic, all decked out in his crimson shirt and ball cap, while Lyndee is wearing the appropriate shirt and smile, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. It’s in her eyes. She’s bored out of her mind but is putting on a good game face for her brother.
There’s another one of them together, standing on a beach with an older woman. Their mom. Sure, I quickly scan her bikini-clad body from head to toe, but that’s not what catches my eye. It’s the light in her eyes. The happiness pouring from the photo from all three, as if no one has a care in the world and they’re just excited to be together. The caption reads, St. Pete Beach, first time visiting the ocean. It was posted over five years ago, and even though she’s aged a bit since it was taken, she still has the same youthful and innocent gleam in her brown eyes.
Closing out of her social media, I click the next link. This one takes me to an obituary dated four years ago. Her name jumps out at me like a neon sign, listed with Dustin’s as some of the only survivors. There’s an aunt and uncle listed too, but that’s it. Jesus. She doesn’t have any family nearby. The ones included in the obituary live in Kansas.
My mind races to my own family. Mom and Dad happily married and two younger sisters, one married and the other engaged. They all live in Westville, Ohio, which is a short one-hour drive from here. Close enough to jump in my car and go for a visit or meet halfway and have dinner somewhere. We’re not exactly right down the road, but close enough. I know they’d be here in a heartbeat if I needed them. In fact, my parents make a trip here monthly to have dinner and catch up, sometimes bringing my sisters and their significant others.
I also have the guys. We became tight in college, but even closer while pouring everything we had into this place. Sure, we’ve butted heads on several occasions, but there’s no one else I’d trust more than them to embark on this journey with.
Lyndee has no one.
No one but Dustin.
Well, I can’t say that. She might have friends or even a…boyfriend. That thought sends my heart straight down to my Italian loafers. I’m not sure why the prospect would bother me so much, but it does. She’s gorgeous, with the most alluring brown eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s funny, sassy, and compassionate. That fact shows with every interaction with Dustin I witness. Anyone would be lucky to go home at night to someone like Lyndee. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Which I’m not.
But if she has a boyfriend, why didn’t he help her move that case and counter?
I ponder that question as I click on another link featuring her name. This one from our own local newspaper and dated for today. It’s an article regarding the bakery and its upcoming opening. As I scan the editorial, I realize the author wrote a fluff piece full of warm and fuzzy feels meant to make you want to become a patron of Sugar Rush the moment it opens. She talks about Lyndee’s education and experience, as well as her vision for the newest business in Stewart Grove. The writer even got to sample a few pastries that’ll be on the menu when it opens next Monday and gave them rave reviews.
Oh what does he know about cream fillings?
I bet his only reference is the Bavarian cream donuts sold at the gas station on the edge of town. He clearly has no clue how to tell if there’s the perfect mixture of sweet and tart.
I read the rest of his piece, boasting about the varieties of breads and coffees to be served, but it’s one specific mention at the bottom of the article that catches my attention.
Award-winning pecan pie.
Oh. Hell. No.
I remember that damn pie. It’s what got her the top grade on our final exam senior year. We were neck and neck until that damn project. How we both ended up baking the same product is beyond me, but all I know is hers came out on top. It was bullshit, of course. No way was her pecan pie better than mine. I’d been perfecting my recipe all year, knowing it was going to crown me champion and top student.
Until those results came in.
She barely squeaked by, earning a half a grade point higher than my own ninety-nine.
I read the rest of the article, about how she put the small bakery she was working for on the map with those fucking pecan pies. She won local contests, as well as a few national ones. She was featured in Foodie News magazine, and even though there have been dozens of offers to purchase her recipe, she refuses to sell.
My blood pressure is high. I can feel it swooshing in my ears like waves on a sandy beach during high tide.
She won awards.
Fucking awards.
They should have been mine.
Before I can even stop myself, I click on the Send a Message to the Editor button at the bottom of the article. I let my anger get the best of me, telling the newspaper how very wrong they were about the bakery and Lyndee. I spew lies about the cleanliness of her bakery, specifically the kitchen, and make up some big story about how she was fired from her previous job for failing to pass basic health department inspections. I even allude to the fact she slept with the inspector to keep it out of the media.
When I’m done composing the email, I let the mouse hover over the send button. After a few long seconds, I finally release the clicker, sit back in my chair, and take a deep breath. I should feel better after trashing the bakery she hasn’t even opened yet and her reputation, but…I don’t.
At all.
I rake my hand over my face and slide my fingers into my hair.
“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself. No way would I actually send this email. I may not be a fan of my new neighbor across the street, but I’d never stoop this low. If her business is going down, it’s not going to be my fault.
I click on the little X at the top right corner of the email and shut down the browser. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I even composed that pile of garbage, let alone considered sending it. What kind of asshole am I?
Don’t answer that.
Thank God there’s no one in the room with me to add their two cents. There’s probably a list a mile long of people who’d jump in and share tales of my assholery over the years.
I jump out of my office chair and pace the checkered tile floor, the same way I did in the kitchen earlier. I’m losing my mind. Lyndee is driving me absolutely insane from all the way across the street. I can’t see her, but I know she’s there, smiling and laughing and being all…happy.
And I’m the sad asshole across the street, who what? Is wishing I could see that smile, feel the warmth of her laughter? Wants to watch her come alive in the kitchen, the dough between her fingers and the flour in her hair? The one who grabs her ass when she walks by and kisses her goodnight at the end of a long day?
The startling realization is the resounding yes to all of those questions.
I was wildly attracted to her back in school, and turns out, ten years later, she still checks all the attributes I find appealing. So I can play this two ways. Pretend she doesn’t exist, as I convinced myself I was going to do early this morning. You know, before I saw her again. Seems like the logical thing to do, but after just a short twenty minutes across the street, that’s proving to be damn hard. I can’t stop thinking about her.
Which leaves me one other option.
Fuck her out of my system.
I know that sounds harsh, but you have to admit it has merit. I can’t stop from getting hard whenever she’s near, and if the way her nipples pebble against her top and her breathing hitched both times I brushed past her is any indication, the feeling is mutual.
Maybe we just need to…you know.
A few casual screws and we can both move on without so much as a glance back. Seems perfect, actually.
Of course, now I just need to convince Lyndee to go along with it. She doesn’t seem like the casual relationship kind of girl, but I can show her how rewarding it can truly be. No strings, no expectations. Just sex.
It’s actually brilliant. My dick is already on board with the idea.
Settled with how I’m going to handle the whole Lyndee situation, I just have to figure out how to approach the conversation with her. I need to have my ducks in a row, so to speak, and have solid talking points. Resolute reasons why us having sex is a perfect solution to our pesky attraction problem.
Then we can both move on.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
***
It’s midafternoon when Isaac finally makes his appearance in the kitchen. “I have those orders we discussed yesterday for you to review,” he says, taking a bite of something in his hand.
“What are you eating?” I ask, curious because he didn’t come down from his office to order something for lunch.
He smirks, powdered sugar sprinkled on his lips. “Jelly donut. It’s the only treat I could steal away from Jameson. He only let me have it because he doesn’t like jelly. The bastard hid the basket.”
“I could make you lunch, you know. It would be a hell of a lot better than some jelly donut,” I chastise, wiping my hands on the clean towel and reaching for the papers in his hand.
“Better than this?” he asks, shoving the donut in my mouth. For the second time today, I’m taking a bite of one of Lyndee’s treats. “Good, huh? We might be in trouble having her across the street. It’s going to be too tempting to run across the street for something sweet.”
Don’t I know it.
Only I don’t think we’re talking about tasting the same kind of sweets.
“These look fine,” I state, handing the orders back to him.
“Okay, I’ll get them submitted shortly.” Isaac doesn’t move, though. He stands there, finishing off his donut, and watches me.
“What?” I ask, knowing full well he’s got something to say and won’t leave until he says it.
Now, he smiles. “So…Lyndee.”
I roll my eyes. “She was in my classes during culinary school. Pain in the ass, actually. Hardly remember her.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Like full belly, bent over to catch his breath laugh. “No? She seemed to remember you.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a memorable guy.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. I field half a dozen in-person visits every week from women who are looking to reconnect,” he quips, referring to the handful of women who have stopped by to see me on occasion. It doesn’t happen as often as he’s insinuating, but it has occurred from time to time.
“Whatever. Do you have a point to your jabbering?”
“No, not really. I guess it’s good to know you’re not into her. Especially since Jameson was talking nonstop about her when I went to confiscate the basket.”
That catches my attention.
“Was he?” I ask casually, though I feel anything but off-the-cuff.
“Oh, yeah. He was talking about maybe heading over after work today and seeing how the setup was coming along. You know, see if she needed any more muscle over there.”
I see red. “The fuck he is!” I bellow, just as the man himself walks into my kitchen.
“What’s going on in here?” Jameson asks, walking over to make himself a burger.
“You are not dating Lyndee,” I demand, unable to contain the wrath threatening to explode from my chest.
He arches a single eyebrow upward. “What?”
Just as I go to open my mouth, Isaac bursts into another fit of laughter. “You should have seen how pissed you got,” he laughs, slapping me on the back. Turning to Jameson, he adds, “I told our man Jasp you were heading across the street to woo our new neighbor. He was just voicing his displeasure.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” I argue, but it falls on deaf ears.
“You don’t think she’d say yes if I asked her out?” Jameson asks, clearly very amused by the conversation.
“Whatever. I’m just saying you’re both very different,” I backpedal.
“And she’d be more suited with someone else. Someone like you, right?” Isaac asks, smiling so wide I can see his molars.
“Shut up. Get the hell out of my kitchen,” I maintain, reaching for the spatula in Jameson’s hand.
Both of my friends laugh so hard they can barely breathe. “Call me when my burger’s done,” Jameson adds humorously, heading for the swinging door.
“Make me one too?” Isaac asks, hot on Jameson’s heels.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, throwing two more patties on the grill. If I’m making burgers for those two knuckleheads, I might as well prepare one for Walker too. “Assholes.”
They are, assholes that is.
But they’re my assholes. My best friends. And even though I played right into their hands a few minutes ago, I know their teasing was in good fun.
It also made me realize something.
If I’m going to get her out of my head, I’m going to have to kick my plan into gear quickly. I need to pitch my idea to her and hope for the best. The sooner I sleep with her, the faster I’ll be able to stop thinking about all the things I want to do to her. For her. With her.
The list is long and itemized.
But after one or two times, three times tops, I’ll stop thinking about that list and how she plays into it. No more late nights. No more shower fantasies. No more waking up hard, wishing she was crouched between my legs and taking my length down her throat.
I’ll be cured of the curse that is Lyndee Gibson.
Easy peasy.
