were family, and I wasn’t ready to move to Chicago and give that up, so as much as a TV spot sounded exciting, there was a serious downside.
Baking had started off as therapy, and I suppose it still was. Cakes were my favorite to create. Not occasion cakes—but cupcakes, carrot cake, chocolate cake, gateaux. And of course I loved a vanilla slice and fruit tarts, and I’d just mastered profiteroles—I liked to bake anything sweet or dessert-like.
“So, you’re going to fly over to Chicago, bang a hot guy, record a TV show, then fly back to be vomited over by your nieces?” Haven had a way of getting to the heart of a situation; no doubt it was the journalist in her. “Before we know it, we’ll have lost you permanently to the Windy City.”
“Actually, it’s something I’ll need to discuss with WCIL. I’m not moving back to Chicago. I don’t believe in going backward. I don’t mind flying over regularly, but every week is crazy.” I shook my head. “Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. They’ve not offered me anything yet.”
“They will, though. They’d be crazy not to. Your breasts alone deserve to be on television,” Ash said, as if she’d just told me she liked my haircut. I shook my head at her, smiling. “They should call your slot The Baking Bombshell .”
“You’re crazy.” I threw a tea towel at her.
“She’s right.” Haven pushed Sophia in her bouncy chair, trying to get her to settle. “You are going to make guys come in their breakfast cereal. You’ll be the thinking man’s crush. Brains and beauty combined.”
“Maybe Mr. International Lover will see you on television, swoop in and you’ll live happily ever after,” Ash said, waving her hands excitedly.
“Mr. International Lover?” I asked.
“Yeah, or Mr. I-Can-Go-All-Night.” Ash looked at me as if I needed to keep up.
I giggled. Dylan. Would he see me on TV? And if he did, would he even remember me? My heart squeezed at the thought. I knew we’d had a no-strings-attached night together. Problem was, a few of my strings seemed to have become attached.
Ash sighed. “I can’t believe you didn’t get his number.”
I shrugged, trying to act as if I didn’t care, though it would have been nice if he’d asked. “That’s the point of a one-night stand. You don’t swap numbers.”
“If you’d have made it on the flight, you could have joined the mile-high club,” Ash said.
“Ewww. In some cramped bathroom that five hundred people have peed in? No thank you. Not even for his monster cock.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t particularly nice when Jake and I did it, and that was on a private plane.” Haven looked off into the middle distance. There were things I didn’t need to know about my brother. That he and his wife had sex at thirty-thousand feet was one of them.
“I bet he sees you on TV and gets in contact,” Ash said. “I’ve got a feeling about this.”
“I’ll be long forgotten. He won’t even remember my name.” Dylan had been perfect one-night stand material, and I was thankful there’d been no awkward aftermath. I was pretty sure that if I’d seen him on the plane, he would have seen my desire to have more of him, and I’d not had to endure the pity in his eyes. I just had to distract myself and move on, perhaps get Haven to set me up. Now that I was over the hurdle of my first sober sexual experience, perhaps I could really date—find someone suitable, compatible, a forever man.
Men like Dylan weren’t dating material.
Dylan
Beth Harrison.
Beth Harrison.
Beth Harrison.
I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Probably because I was in an airport lounge again, this time in London. My hankering for Beth was getting ridiculous. I’d asked my assistant to see if she could find the person sitting next to me on the plane on the pretense that I’d picked up the Mont Blanc pen she’d forgotten. Christ, I’d used a pen for an excuse. I was bordering on pathetic.
I kept telling
Baking had started off as therapy, and I suppose it still was. Cakes were my favorite to create. Not occasion cakes—but cupcakes, carrot cake, chocolate cake, gateaux. And of course I loved a vanilla slice and fruit tarts, and I’d just mastered profiteroles—I liked to bake anything sweet or dessert-like.
“So, you’re going to fly over to Chicago, bang a hot guy, record a TV show, then fly back to be vomited over by your nieces?” Haven had a way of getting to the heart of a situation; no doubt it was the journalist in her. “Before we know it, we’ll have lost you permanently to the Windy City.”
“Actually, it’s something I’ll need to discuss with WCIL. I’m not moving back to Chicago. I don’t believe in going backward. I don’t mind flying over regularly, but every week is crazy.” I shook my head. “Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. They’ve not offered me anything yet.”
“They will, though. They’d be crazy not to. Your breasts alone deserve to be on television,” Ash said, as if she’d just told me she liked my haircut. I shook my head at her, smiling. “They should call your slot The Baking Bombshell .”
“You’re crazy.” I threw a tea towel at her.
“She’s right.” Haven pushed Sophia in her bouncy chair, trying to get her to settle. “You are going to make guys come in their breakfast cereal. You’ll be the thinking man’s crush. Brains and beauty combined.”
“Maybe Mr. International Lover will see you on television, swoop in and you’ll live happily ever after,” Ash said, waving her hands excitedly.
“Mr. International Lover?” I asked.
“Yeah, or Mr. I-Can-Go-All-Night.” Ash looked at me as if I needed to keep up.
I giggled. Dylan. Would he see me on TV? And if he did, would he even remember me? My heart squeezed at the thought. I knew we’d had a no-strings-attached night together. Problem was, a few of my strings seemed to have become attached.
Ash sighed. “I can’t believe you didn’t get his number.”
I shrugged, trying to act as if I didn’t care, though it would have been nice if he’d asked. “That’s the point of a one-night stand. You don’t swap numbers.”
“If you’d have made it on the flight, you could have joined the mile-high club,” Ash said.
“Ewww. In some cramped bathroom that five hundred people have peed in? No thank you. Not even for his monster cock.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t particularly nice when Jake and I did it, and that was on a private plane.” Haven looked off into the middle distance. There were things I didn’t need to know about my brother. That he and his wife had sex at thirty-thousand feet was one of them.
“I bet he sees you on TV and gets in contact,” Ash said. “I’ve got a feeling about this.”
“I’ll be long forgotten. He won’t even remember my name.” Dylan had been perfect one-night stand material, and I was thankful there’d been no awkward aftermath. I was pretty sure that if I’d seen him on the plane, he would have seen my desire to have more of him, and I’d not had to endure the pity in his eyes. I just had to distract myself and move on, perhaps get Haven to set me up. Now that I was over the hurdle of my first sober sexual experience, perhaps I could really date—find someone suitable, compatible, a forever man.
Men like Dylan weren’t dating material.
Dylan
Beth Harrison.
Beth Harrison.
Beth Harrison.
I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Probably because I was in an airport lounge again, this time in London. My hankering for Beth was getting ridiculous. I’d asked my assistant to see if she could find the person sitting next to me on the plane on the pretense that I’d picked up the Mont Blanc pen she’d forgotten. Christ, I’d used a pen for an excuse. I was bordering on pathetic.
I kept telling
Similar Books
