Eyes sharp, angular, strikingly green. So green they glowed. But only when she was having a good day. They fucking changed color. It sounded insane, but it was true. When she was happy, excited or whatever, they glowed a vibrant emerald. When she was having a bad day, when she wasn’t happy, they were duller, almost hazel.

Her body was a fucking dream. Curves to die for. Curves I wanted to worship.

And then there was her voice. Low, raspy yet delicate at the same time. I felt it in my dick whenever she spoke.

And today, when she’d started fucking babbling about some TV show, the apples on her cheeks seemed to grow larger, making her freckles look darker against her skin. It had almost spelled the end of me.

Her hair had been falling around her face, her emerald eyes glowing with what looked to be panic but still made me want to yank her across the counter and finally taste her rosebud mouth.

Especially now that she wasn’t wearing that fuck’s ring. Now that I wasn’t in danger of spending fifteen to life in a state penitentiary for killing him after laying his hands on what was mine.

And she was mine. Whether or not she was wearing that ring. I knew that was fucking insane since I barely knew her, but I felt like I did. I knew that she was shy, that she showed every single emotion on that face of hers. Knew she blushed easily. That she smiled at children. Knew that she donated all of the leftover baked goods to the homeless shelter at the end of every day. That she was soft-spoken and a little goofy. Knew that everyone in town fucking loved her. That she was a goddamn treasure in this town. I knew that she had no fucking clue just how indescribably gorgeous she was.

She didn’t go out… I never saw her at the bar. Knew she spent almost all her time at that bakery of hers. Which she’d built into a nationwide fucking sensation.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” I said to my best friend as we climbed into the truck.

“Bullshit,” he returned, his voice muffled by the huge bite of brownie he’d taken. Which was followed by a groan I really didn’t need to hear from my best friend. Though I knew it wasn’t voluntary; there was no way you could eat that shit without having some kind of physical reaction. I didn’t eat sugary shit. Not until I found myself in that fucking bakery three years ago.

Now I had dreams about the fucking croissants.

Well, Nora was usually baking them in my kitchen, and she was usually naked, but the croissants were there.

Kip chewed noisily as I placed my coffee in the cup holder of the truck, still staring at me, wordlessly calling bullshit.

“We’re not talkin’ about this,” I barked, turning the truck on. “We’re talkin’ about the house we’ve got to finish by the end of the week and the renovations we’ve gotta start next week, the quote we’ve gotta give tomorrow, and the scheduling conflicts we’ve got with two big clients,” I said, willing myself not to stare at her from the windows like a total fucking stalker.