Bittersweet (Ocean View #3)

by Morgan Elizabeth

“Well, that too. I can’t stand him. But he can’t even be in the same room as me without arguing with me.” “You never lock your doors.” “What?” “Drives him nuts. Hear him grumbling about it. You never lock your door.” He’s not wrong. And the few times he’s barged in, he’s mentioned that. But what does that have to do with fucking anything? “What does it matter to him? The back door to the street locks automatically. It’s not like I’m leaving his business or apartment at risk.” “It’s not safe.” I stare at her. “He . . . He has a thing about safety. Especially safety for women.” As I’m looking at her, there’s a flash, a memory surfacing. “His hometown. A buddy of his, his girlfriend, was kidnapped. Crazy stalker, obsessed with her. Anyway, she got away, but before that, she was taken to his family’s work site. The girl was kidnapped from her own business, her cop boyfriend sitting right outside. You just . . . You never know.” Her eyes move to my wrist, bruises having long healed, and I wonder if he talked to her about the mark or if she’s remembering when the dark mark caught her own eye. “His brother’s girl? She was in an abusive relationship for years. Things with safety just . . . hit too close to home for him.” I swallow, not knowing what to say. I can’t deny the bruise, but I also can’t tell anyone the real source. Hattie continues talking. “He doesn’t hate you. He . . . doesn’t feel things. Locks himself away. Stays in his art, his business. He’s separated himself from...

But deep down, New Lola knows. That’s not why I agreed. No, that was for me, not Hattie.

The kind of chills you get when something that you can’t pinpoint inside of you knows intuitively that something bad is about to happen. Johnny is bad news. That much I know for certain. But this? This feels . . . more sinister. “Leave, Johnny.” “Oh, don’t be like that, Lola. I thought we were friends.” His voice is sickly sweet, his thick North Jersey accent making a mockery of the kind words. “I don’t even know you. All I know is that, once again, my father fucked up, and once again, I’m being forced to make it better.” “I’d like you to make it better.” Acid burns in my throat.

“I’ll need a retainer. Something so I know you mean business.” “There’s four thousand in that envelope.” “I’m not talking money, bellissima.” He steps closer to me until I back into a wall. “Johnny—” “Just a taste,” he says, and his breath hits my lips. Panic freezes me. When you’re a woman, you think often about what you’d do in a situation like this. It’s the sad truth of the world, that we all wonder what would happen if we were cornered by a man who had sick, ill intentions. We all like to think we’d shout, scream, hit—anything. But I just stand there. A statue. My mind is blank. My body is ice, blood frozen in my veins. “Johnny, please—” “A taste, bella,” he says, and then his lips are on mine, kissing me, tasting of bourbon and tobacco and smelling of too much fucking cologne, and my senses are overwhelmed instantly. My mind goes blank with the panic, the rage. And then I do it. I slap him, my body kicking into gear and fracturing from the fear, moving to survival. “What the fuck!” he shouts, holding his ear where I slapped him. The skin there is already bright red. I’d be proud of myself but I don’t have time when his hand moves and grabs my wrists in each hand, the envelope of cash falling to the ground, and he pins them to the wall above me. Oh fuck.

“Hattie—” “Now. Go. Put on your big boy pants and face the big scary bakery owner.” She actually rolls her eyes at that. “I’m not scared of her, Hat—” I start. But she laughs, cutting me off as she puts her hand on the arm of the client, urging her into her booth. “You might not be scared of her in the traditional way, Ben, but that woman scares the shit out of you. Once you realize that, we’ll all be able to live with less of a headache.” And then she’s gone behind a closed door, and I can hear her turn down the loud music, almost like she’s telling me to man the fuck up and go. With a challenge like that, I can’t stay no. Saying no would mean she won. And I don’t lose.

Fuck. I adjust myself as I open the door. It should be locked—the bakery is technically closed right now. She still hasn’t fixed the lock. This woman is a fucking mess. But that thought isn’t what has my body stopping, frozen like a bucket of ice was dumped over my head. It’s the sound of a smack, then a man’s voice screaming, “What the fuck!” And as I enter the bakery quickly, on red alert, it’s the sight of Johnny Vitale pinning one of Lola’s hands above her head. A white envelope on the floor next to her. And fear on her face.

And I sure as fuck don’t have time to wonder why I want to fix her mess when her eyes shift to mine, locking there. Relief. That’s what I see there. Sweet fucking relief, and all I want to do is pull her into my arms and make her mine. Fuck the games, fuck fucking her out of my system. Fuck it all, because that look? She’s mine. Strange how relief in her raises alarm in me. Strange how her relief cements my place in her life, whether she knows it or not.

But then it happens. I’m not sure what I expected with my demand, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t her doing just as I asked. It wasn’t her moving the four steps until she’s right in my arms, where I can wrap them around her, the top of her head nestling right under my chin. She’s tall. I knew this, of course, but having her here in my arms without some kind of argument or build-up before is . . . nice. She fits. Most women, they hit my chest and I have to bend to hold them, to kiss them. Not Lola.

I don’t know if I’ll regret this in ten minutes or an hour or a year. But I do know I can’t go a single moment longer without kissing this woman. So my other hand moves to the back of her neck as my lips crash to hers.

“No. I’m done. I was just . . . cleaning up. Extra stuff.” I don’t answer. Instead, I pick her up. Her legs wrap around my hips, and fuck, I like it. A lot. She fits. I knew she would.

Hattie’s sitting at the back table, and when her eyes go to Lola in my arms, her face flushes with confusion. “Cancel my appointments,” I say, tipping my chin to my best friend and coworker. I expect her to argue. Tell me I can’t just cancel appointments. Tell me that she’s not my bitch. Typical Hattie shit. But her eyes move to Lola in my arms. “Got it. Call me . . . soon?” she says, not even demanding. And right there. That’s the reason Hattie Jones is my best friend. The only person on the earth who would see this, know I have it handled, know when to argue, and let me go. She’s a real one. “Cancel your appointments, too. We’re locking up, and then I’ll walk you out.” She stares at me, her face losing color as she realizes this isn’t some small issue. But she just nods, grabs her bag, and starts turning off the lights. A real one.

But because I’m me, instead of, say, thanking Ben for saving my ass or explaining what happened or even just going back to my place, my head turns to the man and says the first thing that comes to my mind. “I’m not . . . messing around with you,” I say. Then I decide to clarify because I am a glutton for punishment. “Tonight.” His thick dark brows come together as he turns his head to me. “What?” “I’m not doing stuff with you. You know . . . sexual stuff.” God, why am I doing this? His brows furrow deeper in confusion and maybe even frustration. “No shit,” he says. “You’ve been through enough. Plus, last time was a mistake.” My stomach churns with what I’ve been overthinking for two weeks. He regrets what happened. And while I left in a flurry, while I slammed the door in his face and never looked back and avoided him since, something about every moment we’re alone together has felt so fucking right for me. Including that night in the hallway. That night in his bed. I hate this man. And I want this man. And somehow, all of those emotions—frustration and anguish and need and desire—feel so at peace with each other when directed at him. Like a part of me knows at the end, it will all settle, that the pieces will fall into place when I least expect it. He sees the panic in my face, the panic that he doesn’t want this. He sees it. I know he does.

At this moment, I think I could fall. I could drop off the cliff of sanity and fall into this man, lose myself there and never come up for air. Let him take care of me and comfort me and be there for me the way no one in my life ever has. Not since my mom, at least. But I can’t do that. I take care of myself.

I wore it as a badge of honor, my duty to my family. And I’m realizing at this moment it never changed a thing. Realizing that everything I sacrificed didn’t change or fix or solve anything breaks me. Once and for all. And on the couch of the man I’m pretty sure can’t stand me but seems to like to save me and possibly likes kissing me, I start to cry. Not sweet tears. Not the kind that you take a photo of and then share on social media. Not the kind you wipe away with a handkerchief. Kim Kardashian-level ugly cries. Body wracking, chest heaving, painful cries that break a wall inside of me I didn’t realize had been constructed.

And as I’m crying in my puddle of pain and shame and embarrassment, I feel arms pulling me out of it. Not out of my puddle—off the couch, into his arms. Solid arms, a solid body. Ben.

“How long have you been fighting this battle alone, sweet girl?” he asks, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. That gets me. That guts me. His eyes look into mine, and he sees my answer without my having to give it. “Too fucking long,” he says. “Now I’m here to share that burden.”

“Fuck off.” “Nothing to be embarrassed about, babe. Jacked myself off to the thought of you standing in the hall in that fucking nightie, fighting with me with your ass hanging out, holding a plate of cookies and fuckin’ cursing me in your head.” “You jack off to the idea of me being mad at you?” That smile grows. It’s almost boyish when he’s not pissed at me. It’s cute. Endearing, even.

“You’re succeeding,” he says, and then his lips are on mine again, soft this time. But soft or hard, sweet or angry, that same feeling clicks into place. It’s just easier to place when it’s sweet and soft and full of . . . more. Comfort. Sweet comfort in a way I’ve never felt. Comfort and security, like being rolled in cotton and silk and protected from the world. His lips glide along mine, unhurried, kissing and moving, tasting and learning. Like we’re discovering what this is, what this could be. Who we are when we aren’t at each other's throats. And I am terrified because I really, really fucking like it.

I put a hand on his chest. Warm. Reassuring. Comfort. “The last person who held me after a nightmare died when I was fifteen,” I say, fingers tracing the lines of a wrench, then a screwdriver over his heart.

But Ben got to keep his mom, unlike me.

“Please.” That’s all I say. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. It feels like a millennium. And if he says no, I’m going to shrivel into a ball and close up my bakery and move back in to Sam’s and bake only for school bake sales.

“Lola, this is a bad fuckin’ idea,” he says in a quiet whisper, so quiet that if my ears weren’t hyperfocused on everything he’s doing, I wouldn’t hear it. “I know,” I say, because I do. This might be the worst idea ever. Ben kissing me when he’s frustrated with me is one thing. Kissing me as punishment is one thing. Letting him kiss me because my adrenaline is too high and I need to forget the world is one thing. Letting Ben take this further in his bed, in the dead of night, while he whispers against my lips and just danced with me to old records and told me about his mother and got in bed with me because I was too afraid to sleep alone? That’s a whole other thing. A very dangerous thing. “I’m gonna kiss you anyway,” he says. My heart soars. Relief washes over me. “Good,” I say back in the same whisper.

“You don’t have to listen to me anywhere else, but if we do this, you’ll be a good girl and listen to me.”

“We have to talk.” “No, we don’t,” I counter. “We sure as fuck do. You need to tell me what the fuck last night was, and I have to figure out what the fuck to do about it.” “None of that is your job, Ben. And it’s none of your business.” “None of my business?” His eyes are wide, incredulous. “Are you kidding me, Lola?” I need to go. I need to get out of here. More importantly, I need Ben to drop this. “We need to talk, Lola.” He doesn’t drop it though. Of course, he doesn’t. Why won’t he fucking drop it? Why does he live to make every step of the way difficult?

“I built this bakery on my own. No one’s help.” “I’m not saying you didn’t—” “Yes, you are. You’re saying what everyone says. There’s no way sweet, ditzy Lola, who can’t even remember to lock her back door and loves to bake cookies and takes care of her little sister, could scrounge money and get a hefty small business loan to start her business on her own. There’s no way in hell Lola could find a space, secure a lease, and renovate a bakery by herself. There’s no fucking way she could watch YouTube videos and fix ovens she found on Craigslist, and there’s no way she could move everything she owns into her apartment single-handedly.” Okay, that one wasn’t an easy feat, and I regretted it for weeks after when my body could barely move, especially when that body couldn’t rest properly thanks to an asshole neighbor, but I did it. “And there’s no way that there would be another fucking reason that sweet, innocent Lola has to hand an envelope of cash over to some scum of the earth asshole who corners her in her own fucking business, propositioning her and telling her there are other fucking ways to pay off the debt.” My chest is heaving as I slip my shoes back on, pulling my shirt—his shirt, which I will not be returning—over my head. Tears are clawing at my throat, but I refuse to show weakness, to cry in front of another person who doesn’t believe in me. Old Lola would have. Not New Lola. “No fucking way, right, Ben? Because I’m Lola, the sweet and annoying neighbor you can’t...

All I’ve ever wanted was to be my own person. Not Libby’s daughter, left behind. Not Lilah’s older sister, the one who has to shelter the innocent daughter. Not Shane’s daughter, the one who will always clean up the messes. I’ve always been looked at through the lens of someone else’s life, never as me. It’s why I didn’t want the fanfare, the ribbon cutting, the extravagant press most every other business would kill for upon opening, because this place is mine. They couldn’t touch this part of me. Turn it sour. I am not who the world has told me I have to be. And I’m definitely not Ben Coleman’s.

Fuck my dignity. Fuck the fact that he’s a total fucking douche canoe. I need the service he’s readily offering.

“I hate how good you feel in me,” I say, the words tumbling in a train of thought that’s gone off the rails. He laughs, the vibrations chafing my nipples under my tee. “Back at you, babe.” Then he draws his hips back, sliding out before he slams in again, so fucking good. “Think this pussy was made for me. Think you and this body were made for me to fucking destroy. If I get my way, Lola, I’ll destroy you every fucking day.” “Good luck,” I say with a moan. “Still fighting me. Full of my cock, moaning for me, writhing because you’re already close to the edge, and you’re still fucking fighting with me. Where’s my sweet girl, Lola?” “Fuck you,” I spit at him but tilt my hips to take him deeper. He smiles that smile, the one that both makes my belly warm and my blood boil, before a hand moves from my hip to under my shirt, grazing the skin on my belly and trailing up to my breast, cupping it in large hands.

“Yes, what?” I know what he wants me to say. And I also know somehow that if I say it, I’m accepting this. I’m accepting his control over me. I’m admitting that there is this crazy chemistry between us that neither of us can resist. “Yes, what, sweet girl? Say it and I’ll make you come right here on my cock.” But then again, haven’t I already admitted it? I’m pinned to the wall in my bakery, his cock so deep in me it’s near bruising, wearing last night’s clothes after the man saved me the night before. And with that realization, I accept my fate and give Ben what he wants. Something I never in a million years would have ever done, but here with him, it just feels . . . right. “Yes, Daddy,” I whisper in his ear, and the groan that leaves his chest is worth every moment of doubt before I said it.

“Now go bake your cookies, sweet girl. Go make the men of the boardwalk’s mouths water, but know that I’m the only one who’s tasting you tonight.” I can almost hear the record scratch, except my own music is still blaring. “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to pull back to look at him, his smile in place. “After you close, come to the shop. You’ll sit in my booth until we close, then you’ll be sleeping in my bed.” “Excuse me?” I repeat again. There’s no way I’m hearing this correctly. “Your music is loud, babe, but you’re not deaf.” He leans forward and nips my ear. A shiver runs down my spine, and he smiles. Such an ass. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.” I move to get away from him, and he lets me. I stand a few feet away, hands on my hips. When I see my mixer is still going, creaming butter and sugar to oblivion, I walk over and flick the switch. The small change in noise level helps my brain to function, so I move to turn down my music, too. Once that’s off, the quiet is near deafening as I repeat myself. “I’m not sleeping in your bed, Ben.” “Fine, I’ll sleep in yours then.” “Ben!”

And before I can argue, which, trust me, I really fucking want to do, even if my mind is stuck on the words safe with me, he’s kissing me once on the forehead before he’s walking out the back door and heading up the stairs separating our homes. And all I can think is, what in the fuck just happened?

“You wouldn’t fucking dare. Go to your place, Ben. I don’t need you over here. You don’t need to burden yourself with my drama, I swear. I’m fine.” There it is. I knew there was something, something bigger that she wasn’t saying. She thinks I’m doing this out of a sense of duty. She thinks she’s a burden, an inconvenience. God, has anyone ever taken care of this woman? Has she let anyone take care of her? Even more, has anyone fought to be the one to take care of her? The thought tears at me, thinking no one has ever bothered.

“Don’t fucking do that,” I say, eyes closed. “What?” “Any of it. Hiding from me. Thinking you’re a burden to me. Playing fuckin’ games. Being fuckin’ sweet when I want to strangle you.” “I’m not being sweet.” “Yeah, you are. All sweet babies and soft hands and syrupy voice. I’m mad at you, woman.” “You’re mad at me?” Soft Lola is slipping away. Good. I can handle attitude Lola. I can’t handle sweet, soft Lola. That Lola, I have no fucking clue what to do with. “Fuck yeah, I am.”

“My mom was good. She was amazing. Held my family together like glue. But what she did most of all was keep my dad together. When she was on her deathbed, days before she passed, she confessed years and years of lies and secrets to me. Secrets she’d been keeping since before I was born.”

“Did I tell you I didn’t wear panties?” I blurt out. Again, the car swerves. “Ben!” I say, once again reaching for the wheel. “Lola, you can’t just say shit like that and expect me to be able to keep this fuckin’ car on the road.” “Sorry.” I stare at the hands I’ve balled in my lap, now self-conscious. “It wasn’t like . . . a sexual thing. I was rushing around and this dress . . . panty lines . . . ” I’m wearing a knee-length bodycon dress with thin straps, and while it’s so comfy it might as well be pajamas, the only panties that don’t show in it are hella uncomfortable. So I made a last-minute decision. I’m kind of regretting it.

And then I take care of Lola like I was meant to from the day we met.

Benjamin Coleman is taking care of me.

Long minutes pass before my fever must get the best of me, letting my thoughts meet reality. “I don’t want to miss it.” His fingers pause. “What?” “You. Taking care of me. I want to soak it in,” I say, snuggling deeper into his lap, pulling a blanket around me tighter. “I don’t understand, sweet girl.” “It’s been a while, you know. Since someone took care of me. I do it myself. I don’t mind,” I say, ignoring him. “It’s not so bad. But it’s nice having someone else do it.” His fingers are still in my hair and my body wiggles, signaling him to continue. He does, and I start talking again. “I was probably . . . thirteen? The last time my mom was able to take care of me. After that, I had to take care of her, and then Lilah, and then Dad.” I yawn, the world closing in on me in my exhaustion. “No one has taken care of you since you were thirteen?” he asks, and it seems almost . . . annoyed. But that’s Ben for you. I wonder if he’s ever not annoyed. “I’m really good at taking care of people,” I say. “The next time you’re sick, I’ll make you soup. Italian wedding soup is my favorite.” “You don’t have to take care of me, Lola.” “I like it. Taking care of people,” I say, and the world blurs more. “But I also really like you taking care of me.” And then the world fades to black. And I think right before I move to oblivion, I hear Ben say, “I’ll take care of you for as long as you’ll let me.” But that was just the fever speaking.

But an art charity gala with my tattooed . . . boyfriend? Perfect. Is he my boyfriend? I think as I touch up my red lipstick and tuck another strand of hair into the low bun. I don’t really know that answer.

No one would care. His words echo in my mind. But those words, inky and dark and terrifying, are shattered by light. I see the paintings that gave me chills what feels like moments ago. Ben would care. I find that comforting.

And as I look over my shoulder, he has a gun in his hand. The hand lifts. I don’t think he’ll shoot me—not here. Too public. But he might knock me out with the butt of it. And if that happens, the game is over. I’m gone. Lilah might as well be gone. And as that hand comes down, I close my eyes, waiting for it to happen. In my mind, I apologize. To Lilah, who doesn’t deserve to lose another person. To Mom, who put this burden on my shoulders, but I still accepted it. To Dad, even if he doesn’t deserve it. To Ben, who is going to live with guilt he didn’t earn. And most of all, to myself. To New Lola, who thought today would be another step forward when really it was seven back. But it doesn’t come. That strike doesn’t come, because there is a hand to Johnny’s wrist. And when I look, I recognize the hand. Those tattoos. Ben. Ben is here, saving me, once again. And then the gun goes off.

“Excuse me, I would like to see my daughter,” my dad says, his politician’s voice on full blast. Shit. “No.” Double shit.

“How? You don’t even have her number.” “Your phone is unlocked, like every other fuckin’ in thing in your life.” I glare at the back of his head, and he turns his face to me. Part of me will probably find this funny one day, getting annoyed with Ben in the middle of a hospital room while I’m having a come to Jesus moment with my family, much less that we’re fighting about things being locked. It’s so very . . . on-brand for us.

Ben is probably in his grumpy AF Ben head, pondering what his next steps in his quest to keep me safe will be. But thinking about Ben and how this is all done—for real this time— has me contemplating this. Because the truth of the matter is, although I’ve been falling for Ben, we’re still always at each other's throats. I can’t go ten minutes without making him pissed at me, and every moment seems to be an opportunity for us to argue. Nothing about us is compatible. The pink, sugar and spice, Taylor Swift-singing baker and the pissy, broody, beautifully creative tattoo artist. We don’t work.

I look him over, taking each bit into my mind and savoring each detail. This man. He’s gorgeous. He deserves the world.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “Do what?” The hallway is silent. Uncomfortably silent. I hate it. I hate even more that I have to fill it. “Take care of me.” His thick brows furrow. “What?” “You don’t have to take care of me. I can do it myself.”

“You don’t have to—” “I do have to take care of you.” His words break me from my thoughts, the mental games of what ifs and assigning faults. My head moves to him, where he’s still staring at me, eyebrows together, confusion now covering his face. “I am going to take care of you, Lola.” I keep staring, confused. “And not just for right now.” I think I know what he means. In a way, it’s an answer to my question. The question of what will happen once this all settles and the excitement is over. Once his sense of misplaced duty settles and wears off. “Ben, seriously—” “You’re mine.” His words stun me into silence. “You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.” “Seriously, it’s sweet, but I . . .” “Lola, what the fuck are you doing right now?” “What?” “What are you doing? What’s your goal here? What game are you playing?” “I’m not—” “Are you really telling me you’re not mine?” “I don’t understand.” My head is a scrambled mess as I try to untangle my thoughts and his words.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ben, if you let me finish a single fucking sentence!” I shout, and then he does it. He smiles. “There she is.” “Who is?“ “Fiesty Lola. My Lola.” “What?” “You give the rest of the world sweet and kind and caring. You give them patience and understanding. But me? I get the real you. The one that wants to rip my throat out and put me in my place.” “See! That’s what I’m trying to say! That makes no sense! I am not yours. You don’t even like me!” “Oh, I like you all right, sweet girl.”

“You’re staying with me or I’m staying with you. End of story.” “Why?” “Jesus, babe. We just did this. Know you hit your head, but Vic said there’s no concussion.” I stare at him, not answering. “You’re mine.” “That makes no sense.” “How the fuck does it make no sense?” And I don’t know if it’s the drama of the day or adrenaline or pain pills or that I genuinely want to get this conversation over with, but I say it. “Because . . . you hate me.” His entire body stills. “What?” “You don’t even like me,” I say, this time quieter, embarrassed. God, I feel like an idiot.

Why has he been spending so much time with me, being so nice to me if this is just an enemies with benefits thing? Why would he bring me home and introduce me to his family? My mind wanders back to those paintings for auction. Paintings of me. My mind wanders to Hattie’s words. He’s different with you. But what does that even mean?