Whiskey Sharp: Jagged. Lauren Dane

save you two and throw in some salmon. But you don’t need to come get it. I’ll be done by eleven. I’ll drop it by your house when I go home.

      A flush washed through her. She’d be alone in the house by then.

      It wasn’t that having him in her house was bad. It was that he was dangerous for her constitution because she wanted to jump on him and ride him like a stallion.

      Which would be a bad idea. Probably.

      Possibly.

      Not that she planned on avoiding it. The having him in her house part. The riding like a stallion was still in the fantasy stages.

      Okay. Thanks, she typed back.

      It wasn’t like she had no self-control. She could say hello and look at his butt and flirt and it would be fine. She was a grown woman!

      And, since this was just a conversation in her head, she could admit that maybe she wanted something to happen with him. They had chemistry—major chemistry—and she got the feeling, given the way he moved, that he knew his business when it came to a woman’s body.

      She went back to her pad but instead of the drawing, all she could think of was Vic and those shoulders of his. Wide. Not linebacker wide, but solid and strong. Capable. She liked that.

      In fact, she was bummed she’d agreed to let him bring the bread to their house because she realized he probably looked ridiculously hot when at work. She bet it was pornographic just watching him knead bread. She already had watched him in her kitchen doing things and gotten a little swoony.

      Yeah.

      Her phone pinged again.

      How often do you have trouble sleeping?

      That was a very long and complicated subject and one she didn’t want to get into via text, in the middle of some flirting.

      I get most of my best work done after midnight.

      Truth.

      He sent her a selfie. One of his brows was raised and he wore a smirk. All parts south of her hairline went on alert. She’d be keeping that picture of him. Just for reference. Or something.

      He was unf-worthy for sure. He was just so fucking much. Hot hot hot.

      Hm. What’s that face for?

      Other than licking and kissing. Perhaps even a nuzzle of that spectacular beard.

      That’s my I don’t believe you face. As for sleeplessness, I have some tea that might help. I’ve had bouts myself. What time do you leave for work?

      Rachel frowned again and then forced herself to relax. That line between her eyes was getting deeper due to what her sister called glowering. Whatever it was called, it was going to make her look old if she didn’t stop it.

      She’d rather think about how Vic’s waist nipped in, creating some sort of inhuman pizza shape of gorgeousness from his shoulders to his other parts, like his penis.

      His cock was probably commensurate with his overall size. Which meant big. And what sane gal didn’t like that? Well, if she liked dick in the first place—and Rachel most assuredly did.

      Her little sister, Maybe, had been giving more get it, girl messages when it came to Vic over the last weeks.

      Maybe, with all her glitter and snarling punk rock. Her sister was a little bit of the best parts of all sorts of things and she blurted weird stuff all the time.

      It was one of her finest qualities because you always knew where you stood with Maybe. She didn’t play games and she loved and protected Rachel as if it was she who was the oldest, not Rachel.

      Hello? Did you fall asleep? he texted.

      Before she’d gone off on some fantasy about his body, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he?

      I’m leaving at a quarter to noon so I can catch my bus.

      Rachel liked taking the bus. It forced her out of her comfort zone to be around people in such close quarters. Every time she managed to make it through without freaking out or getting even slightly uncomfortable she began to believe she’d truly be better at some point. And it cost a crapton of money to park in Pioneer Square.

      Some days she drove or rode in with Maybe and Alexsei, who both worked just a block away from the tattoo shop, but that day she’d planned on busing into downtown as her sister and her sister’s boyfriend were headed in earlier than Rachel needed to be there.

      I have to go back downtown this afternoon anyway. I’ll be at your house by eleven thirty. I’ll make you brunch and give you a ride to work after. Turning off my phone now as I’m headed out the door. See you later today.

      Oh! The cheek! Rachel stared at her phone a few moments and then, with a smile, she tossed it to the bed and took up her pen once more.

      * * *

      THERE WAS FROST on the front lawn as Vic pulled away from his house and headed toward the bakery his family had run for the last thirty years. It crouched right at the southern edge of downtown Seattle most locals referred to as SoDo.

      The location meant their business was heavy with commuters and downtown workers at their lunch hours when they wanted to pick up one of the bakery’s runzas for a quick meal. It also meant they were closed by three and on most weekends.

      The bakery was pretty much always busy. A constant stream of customers, punctuated by rushes, meant the place was either full of customers, or all the employees were busily setting up for the next round of things to do.

      As jobs went, it was a good one. Kept him busy. Paid his bills and enabled him to keep a hand in the family business along with his sister and parents. Gave him the space to keep an eye on everyone and make sure they were doing okay. Especially in the wake of his brother’s death when the family had all but fallen apart.

      He pulled into one of the two parking spots that came with the building and unlocked the back door, turning on the lights in the smaller prep kitchen before heading down into the heart of the bakery where the big ovens lived.

      This was a place he knew. A place he’d been part of—and had been part of him—since before he could walk. As much a home as the place he’d slept at night.

      He knew the slight warp on his favorite pastry scraper. The way the lights made the stainless steel worktables gleam. He hung his coat on the second hook, replacing the clean apron his mother had left on her way out the afternoon before.

      First he turned on some music. Phantogram’s “You’re Mine” came on and smiling, he began to make dough.

      He’d done it so many times it was second nature. Muscle memory as he dumped the yeast into the flour. The ancient mixer was still there because despite its age, it worked perfectly.

      As the place began to hum and the dough took shape he allowed himself to think about his exchange with Rachel.

      Want roared through him. He’d had a thing for his parents’ mysterious and broken next-door neighbor for well over a year by that point and over the last few months their friendship had deepened to the point where he’d truly gotten to know her better.

      And now he was pretty sure he was already half in love with her.

      At first he’d thought she was stuck-up. But he’d come to realize a lot of what he’d perceived as standoffishness had to do with anxiety and a bit of fear. The longer she and Maybe had lived in Seattle, the more she’d begun to settle in, the less anxious she appeared to be. And thankfully he saw way less fear in her eyes—especially when she looked at him—over the last year. She was taking her life back, pulling herself from the dark place she’d been. It was like watching a phoenix.

      Just a few days past, Rachel’s father had burst into her home and threatened to institutionalize her under a conservatorship and keep the sisters apart. Their burning resentment of Maybe, and the overly