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  FEELING IT

  A BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER ROMANCE

  Scarlet Wilder

  COPYRIGHT 2018

  SCARLET WILDER

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  †

  Copyright: Cover, designs, photos, artwork and all written content.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  DESCRIPTION

  †

  Caitlyn

  The only one I ever wanted was my best friend’s brother.

  I knew I could never have him - he just never looked at me in that way.

  So, I left the small-town life behind me to follow my dream

  and hoped for a new life in Montpelier.

  Now, I’m heading back to my hometown,

  dreading the thought of having to deal with my father again.

  I knew Logan would be there and loving the thought of seeing him again,

  but watching him is all it’s ever going to be.

  Me staring at him while he makes out with his latest.

  Me knowing it’s time I lost my V-card, but only being able to picture him doing it.

  I was bracing for more of the same old life I grew up with

  until I found myself behind him on his motorcycle, holding on for dear life

  and loving being so close to him.

  My only wish now is that I could make this feeling last,

  but wanting to go faster with him at the same time…

  WARNING

  †

  “Feeling It: A Best Friend’s Brother Romance”

  is a steamy romance novel with language and scenes that are for mature readers only.

  If you are ready for a hot romance with a slight taste of the taboo, then this story is for you.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  †

  This book is a work of fiction.

  This fictional work does not claim to be an accurate account of

  names, places, geography, times and events.

  This work of fiction was created in the imagination of this author.

  I invented the story and made up the characters, the plot or storyline, the dialogue and, when needed, the setting and other details so support the storyline.

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  DEDICATION

  †

  To Willem

  Miss you Peanuts

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  †

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright 2018

  Important Notice

  Description

  Warning

  Note From The Author

  Join My Mailing List

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Caitlyn

  Chapter Two: Logan

  Chapter Three: Caitlyn

  Chapter Four: Logan

  Chapter Five: Caitlyn

  Chapter Six: Logan

  Chapter Seven: Caitlyn

  Chapter Eight: Logan

  Chapter Nine: Caitlyn

  Chapter Ten: Logan

  Chapter Eleven: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twelve: Logan

  Chapter Thirteen: Caitlyn

  Chapter Fourteen: Logan

  Chapter Fifteen: Caitlyn

  Chapter Sixteen: Logan

  Chapter Seventeen: Caitlyn

  Chapter Eighteen: Logan

  Chapter Nineteen: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twenty: Logan

  Chapter Twenty-One: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Logan

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Logan

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Logan

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Caitlyn

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Logan

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Caitlyn

  Chapter Thirty: Logan

  Other Releases: Wanting It

  Description - Wanting It

  Other Releases - Risking It

  Description - Risking It

  Other Releases - Losing It

  Description - Losing It

  Upcoming New Release - Pre-order

  Description - First Love

  About The Author

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  Connect With Me

  CHAPTER ONE

  CAITLYN

  †

  “HAVE YOU SEEN MY breasts in a polka dot bikini?”

  Wayne chuckled. “No, but I wouldn’t mind taking a look at those sometime. You offering?” he asked.

  I reddened, realizing what I’d just asked must have sounded like. I laughed, trying to shake off the embarrassment.

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I said. “I meant the booby cake I was working on earlier. I swore I left it right here on the counter, but now I can’t find it.”

  “Ask Greta,” Wayne said while spooning cream into a cloth piping bag with a large plastic spatula. “I saw her carrying something to the back a little earlier. It might just be the two Pointer Sisters you’re looking for,” he said, winking at me.

  “Oh, very funny,” I said, making a face at him before I turned to wend my way over to the other side of the bakery, carefully dancing between the prep stations and the waves of staff spread throughout the busy kitchen as I set out to look for Greta.

  I found her hunched over her workstation as she concentrated to carefully sticking another petal onto the cone of her almost completed Fir tree. I didn’t want to startle her, so I waited for just the right moment to quickly jump in and get her attention.

  “Hey,” I said. “I was working on some bikini boobies earlier but now I can’t find them. Any idea where they are?”

  She looked up and her toque flopped to the one side. “Yeah, sorry. I moved it to the refrigerator,” she said. “I saw them on the counter and I didn’t know whose they were so I thought it best to keep t
hem chilled,” she explained.

  “No problem,” I said. “I had to go out to take a call so thanks for looking after them.”

  “Second fridge from the left, if my memory serves me right,” she said. “Bottom shelf. It’s the only space I could find.”

  “Great!” I walked over to the fridges and found it exactly where she’d said she left it. I carefully slid the board from the shelf in the overstocked cooler and took it back to my station. There, I finished applying the white polka dots to the bikini top and then carefully finished off the ensemble by overlaying the skin-colored fondant with the finely spun sugar lace at the top of the bikini cups.

  I’ve lost count of the number of breasts I’ve crafted over my two years at Revellier’s. It seemed to be the cake of choice for many teenage girls whether it’s for their eighteenth birthday party, their graduation or even their church confirmation. I’ve never understood why a pair of boobs and some cheeky writing made for such a popular pick. The most eye-popping one I had to whip up was for an eighteen-year-old who ordered a cake for her post breast augmentation surgery party.

  But, thinking about it now, I actually should have been grateful at the time that it was only a double-D-cup that was about to be celebrated and not a G-spot enlargement procedure as that would have called for some pretty creative baking.

  I did bake a lip-smacking good breast cake, though. The sponge was light and airy, and the pink fondant skin had been fixed in place by Revellier’s’ signature buttercream. I did the final few finishing touches to the bikini top and then stood back to give my creation a quick once-over. It made me wince a little to think about people slicing into those beautiful plump breasts with a sharp knife but, then again, it was only a cake.

  Satisfied, I quickly transferred it to the storage racks where it would later be transferred to a beautiful custom printed Revellier’s cake box before being handed over to the excited client.

  Washing my hands and taking out a fresh pair of gloves, I scanned the list of tasks I had to finish for the day. I was trying to push away the niggling thoughts that kept on creeping into my mind. I kept replaying the phone call I had earlier even though I didn’t want to.

  So, I forced myself to find a distraction. I took out a punnet of fresh cherries from the chiller and began to wash them, carefully taking out the stones and dusting the fruit in a little sugar before I began to make a batter for the clafoutis.

  People came from all over the country, not just the state, to get a taste of what Revellier’s had to offer. They visited from miles around to take home a box brimming over with freshly baked pastries and other glorious carb-loaded treats, both sweet and savory. But, I knew that, all too often, it was only an empty pastry box that made it to their kitchen tables. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have confessed to wolfing down the cakes on the ride home only to have to find something else as a gift for their mom, or their grandmother, or their great uncle twice removed.

  It’s a renowned bakery, and jobs here are coveted. I remember as a child coming into the store on day trips to the city and gazing in awe at the grand pastry chefs in their tall white hats carrying piping bags or platters of sweet treats. I wanted to be one of them, and I knew that the only way I could do that was to get my degree in Baking and Pastry Arts and, as fate would have it, one of the best colleges to help me fulfill my dream was not that far away. The New England Culinary Institute in Montpelier was my home for just over thirty-six months; its name being more of a mouthful than most of the cakes I’ve learned to make there.

  I think Dad was a little worried about my prospects; after all, being a pastry chef doesn’t exactly inspire the kind of confidence that a career as a doctor or a lawyer does. But, I didn’t care. I loved every second of college and worked hard, which is probably why Revellier’s offered me a job even before I graduated.

  Aside from that, I’ve continued to bake cakes for all manner of occasions for friends and their families. I knew that one day I’d have a shop of my own. Maybe somewhere further afield than Montpelier, who knows? Maybe even outside of Vermont altogether. Someone mentioned New York City once and just imagining that sent chills down my spine, and I had to tell myself not to get too excited about that prospect. At least thinking about where my life was going to take me in the future was enough to make me stop thinking about the earlier telephone call.

  I spent a few more dreamy minutes imagining opening a beautiful store in a nameless city, with crowds of eager customers lined up and waiting outside, their mouths watering as the mayor cut the ribbon.

  My growling stomach snapped me back to reality. The pitted cherries went back into the chiller and I went to the back of the kitchen where I quickly grabbed an apple and some yogurt from the staff fridge. There was no time to sit around in such a busy kitchen so I just leaned against the back wall as I made quick work of my small breakfast.

  It’s not easy to keep a trim figure when you work in a patisserie, let me tell you. It’s tough to munch on fresh fruit and a granola bar when fresh mille-feuille is sitting on the counter top about to be smothered in cream and roasted almonds. My resolve has grown over the years but, even now, I still go a little weak at the knees for Revellier’s own profiteroles in chocolate sauce.

  I had just finished the yogurt, tossing the empty container into the trash and licking the last bit of the creamy curd from the spoon, when I felt a vibration in my pocket. I tried to ignore it. It stopped. A few seconds later, it started again.

  Shit.

  I quickly went back outside. I looked at my phone and saw that the missed call was from Cheyenne. I called her back and she answered immediately.

  “Hey,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, it’s okay,” I replied. “It’s about my dad, right?”

  “Oh, so you know already?”

  “Yes, he called me from the hospital about half an hour ago,” I said. “I’m glad I get to talk to you, though. I think you’ll give me a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

  “What’s he told you?”

  I relayed the earlier conversation with my father. About hearing that he was on his back in a hospital bed had given me such a shock I felt sick, but at the same time, he sounded quite chipper too. I’d tried calling the nurse’s station to get a bit more information, but nobody was available to take my call. I needed my best friend to give me the real story.

  “It’s pretty bad from what I hear,” Cheyenne said. “He hit a tree and nearly ended up in the creek. He totaled the car but he called Mike before he called for an ambulance, so I guess he was pretty conscious.”

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. It didn’t surprise me that Dad called the local bartender before he called for medical assistance. I didn’t need to ask Dad whether he’d been drunk when he crashed the car, as it would be like asking the Pope whether he’s Catholic.

  “How bad is his back?” I asked.

  “My mom says she went to see him last night and he seems okay, but he can’t get out of bed. He’s broken his arm, too.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned that.”

  The silence hung in the air and I knew what she was about to ask me, so I made it easy on her.

  “I’m going to talk to my boss today. I’m sure I can take some personal leave. God knows, it’s due. So, I don’t foresee a problem with taking a couple of weeks to come through and help out for a while.”

  “That’s great! I mean, not the circumstances, of course, but we’ll get to see each other, at least! I would love that!”

  She sounded so pleased, and a stab of guilt poked at me. I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t made much effort in the past few years and avoided going back home even for a quick visit. She was my best friend, but I hadn’t been there for her when she needed me the most in her own life. Now my dad was injured and I didn’t have that much of a choice; it was the perfect time to go back and stop running away from things.

  It was time to go home.

 
; †

  Revellier’s is a family owned bakery and while the original founder died in 1921, the place still operated with strong family values. My boss, Martine, was sympathetic when I told her about my dad’s accident.

  “I know so little about your family, Caitlyn,” she said. “Gosh, I don’t even know where you’re from.”

  “Vergennes,” I answered. Even though I loved the beautiful little town, I blushed as I had every time someone asked me that question. I was scared anyone who knew I was from a small town would presume I possessed a certain mentality most assume went along with coming from such a small place.

  Ridiculous, I know.

  But, Martine smiled when I told her. “Oh, I’ve been there a couple of times and it’s so beautiful there,” she said. “I’m sorry you have to go under such terrible conditions, but at least you’ll get to be with your parents.”

  “Just my dad,” I said. “Mom died when I was eight.”

  Her face fell at hearing this, and I knew she didn’t know what to say. She grabbed a pen and hurriedly signed off on my leave. “Take as long as necessary,” she said, giving me a sympathetic smile before waving me out of her office.

  I packed a bag that night and closed up the apartment, leaving a short note for my landlady.

  ‘I won’t be gone too long’ I wrote. I meant it.

  As I drove the sixty miles back to Vergennes, three little words kept playing over-and-over in my mind.

  I’m going home.

  They were simple words, but weighted. What awaited me when I got there?

  I’d spent a good amount of time trying to run away and it somehow seemed strange to now be heading back, even if there were extenuating circumstances. Instead of feeling excited and thrilled to see my dad again, I felt numb. Not the expected emotion one should feel going back to your parent’s home, right. But, it’s the truth.