It will never be over.The words haunt me. Torment me. Two days later, when I'm bent over a birthday cake in my bakery, they still bounce around in my head, still make my stomach twist and my breath quicken and my heart stutter.Because he's right, isn't he?It's been three years. Three years should be more than enough time to get over someone, even the guy who took your virginity. Even the first - and only - guy you've ever loved. Three years should be more than enough time to get on with your life - assuming you're a normal, well-adjusted person.I chew on my lip as I apply a scalloped band of frosting along the top edge of the cake. I'm perched on a stool today - a necessary adjustment, considering my ankle - and it feels unnatural. Normally I can lose myself in my work - hands-on vocations are wonderful for such things - but today I can't seem to find my zone. I suppose I should be grateful that it was my left wrist, not my right, that was hurt - that would have restricted me e

The date doesn't get better. But it doesn't get worse, either. It's just... fine. A pleasant meal with a pleasant man. But as we prattle on about general, innocuous things, Dante's words about what I need keep coming back to me. My conversations with Dante have never been just pleasant. They aren't always good - some of our recent interactions spring to mind - but they were never just conversations. They were always something more - a startling connection, a sharing of energy, a meeting of two sparks of life. I never really thought about them in that way when Dante and I were together, but it's hard not to recognize it now, when all of it is missing with Dean.But I'm not with Dante, and I don't want to be with him - in any way - ever again. I was lonely when I met him - so unbearably lonely that I'd hidden it even from myself - and he'd been there. He'd started to fill in the empty spaces inside of me. I became dependent on him. If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else.

Dante stands over me, staring at me with an intensity that makes my insides go all twisty."Maybe you should let me walk away," I tell him, and my voice sounds ragged. "Did you ever think of that?""Yes." He places a hand against the bricks on one side of my head. "A hundred times."My heart is tumbling over itself. "Then why don't you?" Why are you still here, making this even harder on me?His other hand comes up on the other side of me, effectively pinning me against the wall. But he still doesn't touch me, even as he leans closer. He's so close I can feel his breath on my face."I've never stopped regretting the last time I let you walk away from me," he murmurs.I can't breathe. But I can't escape from him, either - not from his arms or his words or that look in his eyes."What happened to Jack?" he asks, his voice lower with every word. "Tell me, Ash."I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to continue the lie, to hold on to the one last protective barrier I have betw

I'm testing a spicy variation of my new caramel recipe when the jingle of the bell on my bakery's door announces Dante's arrival at a quarter to four on Monday afternoon.I freeze. He's early. I should have known he'd be early.My last three hours have been spent in intense concentration. It's easy to let my mind wander when I'm making recipes I've made a hundred times before. But when I'm testing things, I want to make sure I take in every detail, notice every shift in color or texture, taste or smell. It has made it much easier to forget about why I'm here today.But now that Dante has arrived, I can't distract myself anymore - and I refuse to examine whether my heart has sped up due to nerves or anticipation."I'm in the kitchen!" I call. The caramel sauce I'm stirring has just started to thicken and I can't walk away. "I'll be out in a minute."There's no response. But a second later, I hear the kitchen door swing open behind me."Give me a moment to finish this sauce," I say

Dante's finger hovers in the space between us, that bit of buttercream waiting for my tongue.I can't believe that I'm arguing with him about this. He's supposed to be the serious one. Not the one tempting me into breaking the rules. And though he's right that these particular bits of cake and frosting will never be served to the public, I still find myself resisting. Especially since he's holding his hand out as if he expects me to lick his finger.But I can tell by the look on his face that he's testing me. Teasing me. And I'm not exactly the sort of girl who backs down from a challenge.Okay. I'll play.Rather than dip my head and lick the frosting right off his skin, I use my own finger to scoop off a bit of the buttercream and bring it to my lips."There," I say after it melts on my tongue. "I've licked my finger. Are you happy now?""Not nearly." He grabs my hand and lifts it up. "You've left a good bit of frosting on your skin."I'd hardly call what's left on my finger a