Page 37 of Cakes for the Grump

Sure, people have opinions of me. But I try to make my own opinion the loudest in my head.

Yes, I am devastatingly hot tonight.

When I arrive at the bar, it is dimmed and packed with groups of people drifting with sanguine expectations. There is space for a dance floor, although most people crowd around tables and laugh around bar tops, two set up on opposite ends of the space. A husky melody croons through speakers, lyrics of shared cigar puffs and chocolate licked off skin. It’s sexy and dive-like. Jazzy and bustling.

As I make my rounds, trying to find my forced company for the evening, a few men look me over as I pass by them. Their lingering eyes make my hips sway scantily, but no one stirs anything enough to dally behind. Pity. This place is full of boning potential, as my friends would say. High possibility I can find someone to fondle my breasts as I like and massage an O out of me after some guided instructing, if that’s what I want. It doesn’t appear to be, though. The idea of debaucheries in a night of stringless passion is not awakening any fun interest down below.

What’s up with me recently?

Even family and financial stress can’t explain it away, since this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced those particular conditions and it won’t be the last. A good romp should be a distraction from your troubles, so why wouldn’t I be even more interested in Barcelona?

Finally spotting Theo at a table, I wade through the crowd to him.

He perks up, grinning lopsidedly. “If my parts liked your parts, darling, I couldjustdie. What a stunning dress, body, and face, Rita.”

“Pretty words don’t work on me.”

He pushes forward a plate of food. “How about nachos?”

“Then you’ve got me.”

Before I can sit down, a gruff voice interrupts us.

“That’s my seat.”

Ready to stake my claim, I turn around. And freeze.

Luke Abbot…is not wearing a suit.

And somehow it’s worse.

Much worse.

There is no usual tailored suit jacket separating the public from hischest. Only a long-sleeved black shirt, its material far too thin and soft-looking to count as a true barrier. Biceps are outlined. What’s even way worse is how his sleeves are rolled up, the diabolical purpose to draw focus to thosehands. Long fingers, wide palms, the right amount of raised veins. They could hold you up or pin you down with no effort.

My eyes crawl downward.

Slim-cut fitted pants finish off the look.

There are other details too, but I work hard not to notice them, lessening the ammunition being added to my misery. Because that spark down there I’ve been lamenting the loss of? It’s piquing, obviously not accounting for taste or personality. Silly vagina,be better.

“You look—” I start but don’t finish.

His eyes are everywhere but my face.

“You look—” he starts but also doesn’t finish.

What?

When I try to meet his gaze, he refuses to make contact. Before I can think anything further, he crossly moves to get another chair for the table. Deciding I’m going to be annoyed as well, I drop into his seat because his property claims won’t work here. We’re outside his domain. I can sit wherever I want and do whatever I want.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” notes Theo, visibly intrigued.

Ignoring him too, I eat some nachos.

When Luke returns with his chair, he surveys the cheesy heart attack pile with fleeting disdain before his attention is consumed by watching others in the bar, his posture rudely half-turned away from the table, barring the few times Theo and I crunch hard enough on a tortilla chip for him to perturbedly glare our way.

He obviously doesn’t want to be here.