Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

Maybe this wasn’t important because Niki was clearly terrified and overwhelmed, and I needed to do something to put my best friend and the woman I loved at ease.

And deal with the crowd of people in the hall.

Hayden, Niki’s righthand man, glanced from his boss to me to the crowd and said, “Hey, I had a quick question about—”

“No shop-talk!” Iris protested.

But Hayden was skilled at maneuvering, and so was I. Sometimes, anyway. When it didn’t come to declarations of love, that was.

Or botched ones.

Or any variety, I supposed.

Regardless, work would give Niki a cushion, a moment to come out of her shock, and then I could corral our friends, put them to work cutting noodles. Then I’d take my woman aside, would tell her in no uncertain terms that I most certainly loved her, and I didn’t give a fuck if that notion scared her, because I wasn’t like her parents or her former fiancé. I wasn’t just going to leave. I loved every part of her, and I was staying around.

Okay?

Okay then.

Hayden met my eyes and lifted his chin in the direction of the kitchen. I nodded gratefully, shepherded the rest of the flock away, thanking the universe that Hayden was able to read his boss.

Ten minutes later, I’d gotten the girls to roll up their sleeves, Iris supervising as Anabelle and Brooke rolled out the pasta dough I’d premade and then cut the fettuccini noodles, Kace reheating the sauce on the stovetop. Bread was covered, courtesy of Iris and her bakery, along with wine and salad, the two which both, surprisingly, were from the bar.

Not the wine, I supposed.

That made sense.

But the salad.

It was fresh and delicious and the second bestseller behind the sampler basket of fried goodness. Local produce made that easy, along with a large subset of their customers who liked to “pretend” to be healthy by ordering a salad to go along with all that bar food.

“Pretend” because that’s what a few of their regulars—Abby, Bec, Sera, CeCe, and Rachel—called it when they came in for their weekly dinner date. Sometimes with husbands. Sometimes with kids. Always with lots of laughter and affection.

Their regulars were the best.

That aside, I had the food part of the evening covered. Everyone’s belly would get filled, wine would be drunk, and good times would be had, even by Niki. I’d make that happen. I’d give my left nut to make that happen.

But as time passed, my eyes drifting to the doorway, neither Hayden nor Niki making an appearance, I started to get tetchy.

She was probably in panic mode, and the distraction at work had just been temporary and—

Breathe.

It would be okay.

I’d talk to her and all would be okay.

I set the table, opened and poured the wine . . . and kept checking for Niki.

After fifteen minutes, I heard footsteps and relaxed when Hayden walked into the kitchen. But that tension returned almost immediately because Niki didn’t follow.

Hayden came and got two glasses of wine from me. “She’s okay. Just in the bathroom.”

I nodded but didn’t feel reassured as he moved off to bring the wine to Anabelle. In fact, I was so on edge, every cell in my body telling me that I needed to find Niki and speak to her immediately, that I’d actually taken a step back when Iris called out for my help.

“I’m a baker not a pasta maker, Archer,” she said. “What do we do now?”

My gaze was on the opening, hoping that Niki would . . . just . . . come . . . in.

“Just put them in the water,” I said.

“Um . . .”

Something about Iris’s tone had me turning back . . . and immediately wincing at the mess that had become of my pasta dough.

My brows lifted.

Iris plunked her hands on her hips. “I said I was a baker, not a pasta maker.”

That, I could see.

“I am neither a baker nor a pasta maker,” Anabelle said, a chunk of dough in her hair.

“Me, too,” Brooke said, her entire front covered in flour. “I can write a book about making pasta, but I can’t roll it out for shit.”

That, also, I could see.

Sighing, I tore my gaze from the opening, put down the bottle, and headed over to rescue dinner from the hands of the trio. I’d give Niki a few more minutes before busting down the door to the bathroom.

“Okay,” I said, “non-bakers and pasta makers, this is how you roll out dough.”

Chapter Twenty

Niki

After Archer’s woman I love slipup (Was it a slipup? Was it real? Did I want it to be real? Was I fucking terrified to want that?) I seriously considered running out the front door.

But there were two problems with that.

One, it was my house.

Where would I run to? I supposed I could buy another house, in a city far away from any and all men named Archer who said insane things like I love, but I wouldn’t be able to sneak my computer equipment out without him seeing, and I needed my equipment so I could work and pay for the new house, and I couldn’t just go out and buy a new computer because I’d built my current setup. So no, I was too attached to my beauty of a system to just replace it with something store-bought.

Two, my other problem with just running, was . . . well, I didn’t want to run.

I liked being with Archer.

It was easy and beautiful, and I couldn’t picture going back to my life how it had been before.

How could I give him up?

And yet, how could I keep him? Wouldn’t love bring complications and more emotions and more ways for me to let him down?

I couldn’t love him. I couldn’t.

It was just better to be boyfriend and girlfriend, extreme like on both sides, nothing complicated like love. Then we’d stay lovers, stay friends, stay together, and I wouldn’t have to give him up.

Yes, I was ignoring the fact that most