The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan's Mill Book 6), page 9
I glared at him in horror.
He laughed even louder. “What… you never stuck your dick in a—”
“Oh my god, go!” I pointed to the stairs. “We’re leaving! Put a shirt on! And rescue my bow tie on the way down the stairs!”
He grinned over his shoulder. “You should give it a whirl sometime.”
“Stairs! Bow tie! Now!”
As we left the mill, Cody’s laughter still echoed through the rafters.
By the time we got back to town, the sun was setting.
He walked me to door of the Book Nook, and we stopped under the awning, both of us damp, our shoes still muddy, his ridiculous, contagious laugh still ringing in my ears. For a moment neither of us spoke.
“Well,” I said finally, staring much too hard at the brass handle on my own front door. Desperately I wanted to haul it open and pull him inside. Instead, I said, “That was… an experience.”
“The mill? Or the storm sex?”
My ears burned so hot I was sure steam was about to rise off me. “Both. I guess.”
He only grinned. “Yeah. It was a hell of a day.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. God how I wanted to invite him upstairs. I wanted to suggest tea, or a shower, or—heaven help me—even a second round. “Would you like to… ah… I mean… perhaps if you—”
He cut me off gently. “Easy, handsome. Let’s not rush.” His voice was warm but steady, and it grounded me instantly. “It’s been a big, dramatic day. We’ve shifted gears, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we need to put the accelerator to the floor.”
I swallowed. He was right, of course. He always seemed to be right in that infuriating, casual way. Although part of me suddenly questioned whether his interest was waning.
“Are you saying, you don’t want to come up?”
“Fuck no. I really, really, really would love nothing more. In fact, I don’t just wanna come up… I wanna come all over you.”
The sound that escaped me was an actual whimper.
“But there’s still a whole lot of our story yet to be told.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. “Kurt Vonnegut said every sentence in a story must do one of two things, reveal character or advance the action.” I paused. “Of course, Edgar Allan Poe said when in doubt, bury someone alive, so I’m not sure we can trust the advice of all storytellers.”
He chuckled. “Let’s reveal character and advance the action. We’ll give the grave-digging a miss, shall we? In the meantime, I should head back to the BnB. Benji and Bastian will be worried I drowned in a puddle or got eaten by a black bear. I better let them know I’m still in one piece.”
“That would be sensible,” I admitted.
He gave me that cheeky smile again, the one that seemed to see straight through every defense I thought I had. “But how about this? Tomorrow morning, I’ll swing by Pascal’s, grab us some brekky, and bring it here. You like croissants?”
“Of course,” I said too quickly, already picturing him turning up with a box of French pastries. “Yes. That… that would be nice.”
“Good,” he said, stepping a little closer.
Before I could overthink anything, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t the fevered, desperate kiss I’d planted on him in the middle of the storm.
It was something slower, softer, more deliberate.
When he finally pulled back, he whispered, “See you in the morning, Brooks Beresford.”
Then he stepped away, hands in his pockets, striding down the dusky street with that easy swagger of his.
The first thing I did when I got upstairs was draw a bath.
The storm had soaked me through to the marrow. I felt damp, sticky, and muddy. A bubble bath, I decided, would calm my racing heart and restore order. It always did.
The tub filled slowly, the old pipes groaning, the bubbles rising in a froth of white. I placed a folded towel on the rack within easy reach, set a candle on the sill, and chose a romance novel from the stack beside the bed.
I peeled off my clothes and stood naked beside the tub until it was almost full.
I turned off the running water, dipped one toe in, and almost melted on the inside. The temperature was perfect. I stepped in and gave a happy moan as I sank down into the bubbles. The heat seeped into me, untying knots I didn’t realize I had.
I opened the book and tried to read.
But every time my eyes moved across the words, all I saw was Cody.
Cody soaked in the post-storm golden light, chest bare, hair wild.
Cody laughing in the rafters of the mill.
Cody calling me handsome like it was a fact rather than an opinion.
Cody’s stiff cock inside his drenched shorts.
I sighed and set the book carefully aside on the little bookstand by the tub.
Then I lay back. I let the bubbles lap at my chest. And let myself think of him.
My hand slipped lower, sliding under the water, down my quivering stomach, curling around my cock. I stroked slowly at first, fantasizing that it was his hand instead of mine, his rough palm guiding me, his laugh breaking against my mouth as I moaned.
That was when the damn plug in the tub started up.
First it made a gurgle, then a low wet suck, the kind of irritating noise that always threatened to break the spell of a bath.
I frowned, ready to yank it out and cut my pleasure short.
But then… I thought of Cody again.
The plug made another sucking sound, and I imagined Cody’s lips around my dick.
I imagined him sucking my cock with the same hungry enthusiasm he seemed to give everything in life.
I trembled at the thought of him taking me completely in his mouth with that wet, messy sound, obscene and perfect.
I groaned, my fist tightening as I pumped faster. The bubbles sloshed against the sides of the tub. My hips lifted, chasing the rhythm.
“Fuck, Cody,” I whispered, my voice like a prayer to the universe.
I was close, so close, the thought of him swallowing me down, his own groans muffled by my cock, his tongue teasing the head. The gurgle of the drain grew louder, more urgent, and suddenly I lost myself completely.
Cum spurted hot across my belly, disappearing into the bubbles in streaks of white, my body jerking as I gasped for air.
I lay there, heart racing, water lapping gently against the porcelain.
Slowly, I let my hand fall away, the aftershocks easing.
I stared at the ceiling, catching my breath, and smiled despite myself.
Cody Cameron had wormed his way into my every thought, every nerve ending. And now, as I thought about bed, as I yearned for sleep, I knew I’d be taking him with me into my dreams.
CODY
I woke up with one mission in mind: breakfast delivery.
Not just any breakfast—brooksfast. Pascal’s finest croissants, still warm, carted straight up Main Street to the front door of Brooks’s Book Nook. Maybe I’d even get a smile out of him before noon. You never know your luck in a big city… or a small town.
By the time I pushed open the patisserie door, the air was so thick with sugar and butter it could’ve put me in a diabetic coma just by breathing it in. My eyelids fluttered with delight before I homed in on the glass display cases glittering with éclairs, tarts, Danishes, and of course… croissants.
“Why if it isn’t our very own Thunder from Down Under!” Lonnie waved excitedly from behind the counter. “Darling, look who’s back!”
Beside Lonnie, Ronnie popped up from nowhere, tray in hand. “You’re here for another buttered boomerang, aren’t you?”
I laughed. “You’re really running with that name, huh?”
“Of course we are! It’s brilliant,” Ronnie declared. “Although unfortunately Pascal disagrees. He says it’s sacrilegious to rename a French classic. He gave us a twenty-minute lecture on tradition, heritage, and the sanctity of choux dough. I didn’t even know he knew martial arts.”
“Honestly,” Lonnie stage-whispered. “Poor Ronnie almost nodded off face first into a bowl of batter.”
I chuckled. “Well, for what it’s worth, I have to say I’m with Pascal on this one. The name ‘croissant’ is already perfect. No need to fix it. And if the French can create something that delicious, I say let ’em name it.”
“That’s fine for the people of gay Paree,” Ronnie said. “But nobody in Mulligan’s Mill knows what they’re eating. Which is why we’ve come up with some other options.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Other options?”
“We’ve been workshopping new names for all his pastries,” Lonnie said proudly, pulling a notepad from her apron pocket and flipping it open. “So, éclairs? That’s a little too ooh-la-la fancy for the folks around here. So we’ve decided those are now officially Slinky Choca-doodle Twinkies.”
“Oh! Okay.”
Ronnie jumped in. “And macarons? Nobody knows what the heck they are, so we’re calling them Pride Parade Oreos.”
“Madeleines,” Lonnie added. “Are basically French Tater Tots, let’s be honest.”
Ronnie leaned close, eyes wide with mischief. “And don’t even get us started on mille-feuille. Who can pronounce that? We’re now calling it a Custard Reuben Sandwich.”
I gave a helpless grin. “Wow. Those names are… fascinating. Although you might wanna run some of them past a team of lawyers first.”
“Already on it,” Ronnie announced proudly. “Lenny the town lawyer is looking into trademarking these names as we speak.”
“Granted, he hasn’t practiced law for a good thirty years now,” Lonnie whispered on the side. “Not since he was caught in that rinky-dink motel with a suitcase full of cash and a lady of the night who was on the run from the Mexican mafia. Honestly, he’s lucky the police found him before his body was cut up into little pieces and sent to his dear old mother. She’s got a heart condition, poor thing. Opening a DHL parcel with a foot inside is nobody’s idea of a pleasant surprise.”
“So does Pascal know about your little rebrand?” I asked.
They both leaned in closer. “Not yet,” Ronnie said.
“We’re waiting for the right time to tell him,” Lonnie added. “The French can get very emotional about these things. But we know in the long run it’s for the best.” Suddenly she pulled back and beamed like she just won Employee of the Month. “Now, sweetie… what can we get you?”
The bell over the Book Nook door gave its polite little chime as I pushed my way inside, holding a paper bag of croissants in one hand like it was precious cargo.
The moment he heard the ring, Brooks looked up from behind the counter. And for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t look… rigid. His bow tie was still in place—of course it was—but his hair had a softer wave to it, like he hadn’t drowned it in quite as much gel. And I swear his sleeves were rolled up just a fraction, maybe just an inch above the cuff, but enough to bare a sliver of forearm. It was positively bordering on scandal.
“G’day,” I said, more out of habit than any attempt to sound overtly Aussie. “I come bearing delicious gifts.” I held up the bag.
Instantly Brooks’s face lit up. “A man of his word!” His nostrils twitched and his eyelids batted at the aroma that filled the bookstore. For a moment I thought his knees would actually buckle and I was more than ready to swoop in a save him.
Instead, he stiffened, pulled at his bow tie, and said, “Well. I suppose we may as well… indulge.”
I plonked the bag down on the counter, tore it open, and handed him one of Pascal’s buttery masterpieces. He held it like it was rare parchment, inspecting the layers.
“Why don’t I run upstairs and get some plates?” he suggested. “And some napkins. And perhaps some cutlery. Knife? Fork? Spork?”
“Nah, we’re right,” I said with a wave of my hand. I flattened out the empty paper bag like it was a mini picnic blanket. “This’ll catch any crumbs. So, how’d you sleep?”
He hesitated, then said, “Like a baby. I guess the storm knocked me out completely.”
“Same,” I said, taking a giant bite. Flakes exploded everywhere—down my shirt, across the counter, drifting to the floor. “Although ironically, most babies don’t sleep well at all. Most of them wake up every two hours and cry half the night, so God knows who the bloody galah was who came up with that ex—”
I stopped talking when I saw Brooks staring wide-eyed at the flakes that had fallen from my croissant.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned, more buttery remnants falling from my bottom lip as I spoke. “Just enjoy your breakfast, would you? I’ll clean up once we’re done.”
His gaze lingered on the tiny golden flakes on his polished floorboards. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for a broom.
Then suddenly he drew in a sharp breath, squared his shoulders, and—miracle of miracles—took a bite of his croissant. Holding it in his hands. Tearing into it with his teeth.
Mr. Hyde was back.
Flakes fell from the corner of his mouth onto the counter. He saw it. I saw it. The ghosts of every author in the room saw it.
And still he continued hoeing into his tucker.
I nearly dropped my own croissant. “Holy shit,” I grinned. “Brooks Beresford, living life on the edge. Next thing you know you’ll be flipping straight to the back of mystery novels to find out who the killer is before you’ve even finished the first chapter.”
He swallowed, gave a prim little sniff, and said, “There’s no need, I’ll have already worked out the guilty party in the first ten pages.”
I laughed. “It’s always the butler, right?”
He shook his head, and he licked a flake from the edge of his lips. “No, there’s a formula.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A formula?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “One simply takes the order of character introductions, multiplies it by the number of available weapons in the setting, then subtracts anyone who has an alibi in the first five pages. Next, you divide by the strength of each character’s motive—adjusted for dramatic irony—and apply a weighted average to account for narrative red herrings. Then, naturally, you remove the butler, because it’s never the butler, despite what unimaginative readers think. If the story is set in England, you must also discount vicars, whereas in American novels you discount stepchildren. Once all that’s done, the solution presents itself with absolute clarity, all by page ten.”
I laughed so hard I almost choked on my croissant. “That’s not a formula, Brooks. That’s… lunacy with fractions.”
He sniffed. “Lunacy that works.”
“You know what else might sound like lunacy?” I asked, leaning forward with a twinkle in my eye.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
My face lit up with mischief. “Camping.”
BROOKS
I froze. “Camping?”
“Yes. Camping. I wanna go camping in these beautiful woods… and I think you should come with me.”
“Camping!” I repeated.
“Yes!” he repeated.
I blinked in horror and said again, “Camping?”
“Are we stuck in a time loop or something? Yes. Camping. You, me, the woods. A little tent, a fire, a sky full of stars. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun? Are you insane? Why on earth would I deliberately choose to sleep outside when I own a perfectly good bed here… indoors… with sheets and pillows and running water?”
He grinned. “Because it’s an adventure.”
“Adventure?” I snorted. “Adventure is finding a misshelved copy of War and Peace wedged in between cookbooks and restoring it to its rightful place. Adventure is discovering the town library accidentally filed Moby-Dick under Fishing Guides and returning it to Literature where it belongs. Adventure is not—” I waved my half-eaten croissant violently. “Deliberately bedding down in the dirt.”
Cody laughed so loud he coughed out a flake of pastry that landed on my shirt. I promptly brushed it off as he asked, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“The worst?” I started counting on my fingers. “Mosquitoes. Bears. Serial killers. Tents that collapse in the night. The inevitable moment I need to use the bathroom only to discover the ‘bathroom’ is a shrub. Sleeping bags are basically coffins with zippers, and don’t even get me started on the lack of basic essentials like electricity and chamomile tea. Not to mention we just survived a flash flood! I have no intention of doing that twice in my lifetime, let alone twice in the same week!”
By now, Cody’s crumbs had spilled all over the counter. I couldn’t take it a minute longer. I snatched up my broom and began sweeping furiously.
Cody leaned even closer, unbothered. “Am I right to assumed you’ve never camped before?”
“Of course not,” I huffed. “I’ve spent my whole life avoiding such nonsense. I need lumbar support. I need cotton sheets. I need—” I jabbed the broom for emphasis. “Walls!”
He shrugged. “Then this’ll be your first time.”
I spluttered. “I don’t think so. I don’t have the equipment, I don’t have the expertise, and I certainly don’t have the inclination.”
“Relax. I’ll bring the gear, I’ll pitch the tent, I’ll even build the fire. All you’ve gotta do is show up. Well, and maybe try not to scream every time a cricket chirps.”
I swept harder, muttering, “I don’t scream, thank you very much.”
“You practically squealed when I tickled you.”
“That was not a squeal. That was sheer shock.”
He grinned, finishing off the last of his croissant and licking his fingers. “So that’s a yes, then.”
“It is absolutely not a yes.”
“Great,” he said, ignoring me entirely. “I’ll pick you up this afternoon, once you close up shop. We’ll head out past the mill, hike a bit, head to higher ground, and set up camp overlooking the falls. Trust me, Brooks Beresford, nothing says romance like marshmallows roasting over a crackling campfire.”
