Opposites Ignite by Sadira Stone (simple ebook reader .TXT) 📕

chamomile tea with honey, “Babka’s favorite.” Her eyelids grew heavy, and Eddie’s words faded into a pleasant baritone rumble washing over her exhausted body and mind—soft, warm, cozy.

****

An icy draft woke her. “Huh?” She rubbed her bleary eyes and rose onto her elbows. Eddie lay bent at a right angle, feet on the coffee table, his head in her lap, so peaceful and pretty with his long lashes brushing his cheek. He was dreaming, eyes darting beneath closed lids. He muttered gibberish and kneaded her thigh as if adjusting a pillow.

His sigh twisted her heart in a spasm of something dangerously close to love. Time to extricate herself. Too tempting to stay like this all night, even though her back ached from sleeping at an odd angle, her right leg was asleep, and—it wasn’t night anymore.

“Eddie.” She poked his shoulder.

He buried his face between her thighs. “Five more minutes.”

“Eddie!” She shook him. “It’s light out. And someone brought us breakfast.”

He bolted upright. “What?” he croaked, his gaze whipping from her face to the kitchen counter.

“There.” Rosie pointed to the table by the door, where someone had set a tray holding a thermos and something sweet-smelling covered with a kitchen towel. “Does your mom usually bring you breakfast?”

“Uh, no.” He lurched to his feet and knuckled his eyes. “What day is it?”

Laughing, she hauled herself upright. “Thursday.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Eight-thirty. Holy shit. Did we?—” He gestured to the couch.

“Talked through the night, I guess. Or most of it. Is that coffee cake?” The memory of his babka’s cinnamon swirl cake made her stomach rumble.

He crossed to the door and lifted the napkin. “Blueberry muffins.” Grinning sheepishly, he held up the plate. “Breakfast for two.”

She groaned. “Busted again.”

Chapter Seven

The dry-cleaning shop’s doorbell chimed, pulling Eddie from his Advanced Marketing homework back into his daily grind. A middle-aged woman bustled through with a pink gown draped over her arm and a panicked look on her face. Since his parents were in back arguing with the repair guy over a malfunctioning trouser press, it was his turn to deal with customers. Oh joy.

“Please tell me you can fix this. My daughter’s winter formal is tomorrow night.”

He pasted on a smile. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

“My brilliant child wanted to post her dress on Instagram in the middle of a pizza party.” She pointed to a splotch across the bodice. “Any hope?”

“Well, grease is tough.”

“Noooo,” the customer wailed, fists clenched. “Do you know how long it took to get this dress?”

“Mrs. Rodriguez, so lovely to see you.” Dad bustled from the back room, hands extended as if greeting a long-lost relative. “Such a beautiful gown. When do you need it?”

“Photographer’s coming tomorrow at four.”

Dad scrunched his lips to one side, then the other. “I can do that.” He held up a finger. “I must warn you, though, we may lose a few sequins.”

“Fine.” She sagged with relief. “I’ll get more at the craft shop. Hell, I’ll glue-gun them on if I have to.

Mama popped through the swinging doors. “One-day service costs extra for formals. Such a lovely gown.” She glanced at Eddie, then leaned toward the customer and winked. “Kids, right? Always making messes.”

Eddie bristled. Compared to his mother, whose cooking involved flinging ingredients like Jackson Pollock, he was neatness personified. And Dad left a trail of papers around the house and the shop. More than once, he’d had to sleuth his way through piles of Dad’s discards in search of a crucial receipt.

“Tag, son.” Dad slid the gown to Eddie, who typed in the customer’s information, then attached a bar code label to the hem.

“My son, the MBA.” Dad beamed. “He is so smart with all these computer things.”

Eddie suppressed a snort. Because he could only pay for a few classes at a time, he was still a year away from earning his bachelor’s degree.

After the grateful customer left, Dad held up the gown. “What fabric? No peeking.”

Eddie huffed. “Dad, it’s right there on the tag.”

“A dry cleaner must know his fibers. Touch it. Smell it. What’s it made of?”

He rolled his eyes and gave a sniff. “Polyester and pizza.”

Dad smacked his shoulder. “Rayon and elastane. You better take this seriously, son. One day, all this will be yours.” He grabbed the dress and bustled into the back room, pale pink cloth fluttering behind him like a battle flag.

Mama sighed. “You could at least pretend to be interested. Dry cleaning puts food on your table and clothes on your back.”

And pollution in the air and water. No matter how his parents encouraged and chided, he just couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the wonderful world of textiles. Rosie was right—he had to tell his parents, and soon, while they still had a chance to find and train someone to take over the shop. But they were so proud of their business, and of him. Striking out on his own might break something that couldn’t be repaired.

Mama sprayed the front counter with lemon-scented disinfectant. “Did you and Miss Rosie enjoy the muffins?”

“Yes, Mama. Thank you.” He pecked her cheek.

“Interesting girl. Colorful. Not your usual type, but I like her.”

Did he have a type? A hard-core introvert, he was attracted to outgoing women who found his shyness cute at first, then quickly grew bored when he couldn’t match their energy. And he was small, so of course he was attracted to big, voluptuous women who seldom gave him a second glance. In the past year, he’d been on a handful of dates with women he met at Bangers or his parents’ shop, but no one really clicked until Rosie.

“I’m glad you’re getting serious with someone. We want grandchildren one day, you know?”

While Mama hummed and spritzed, he allowed himself to sink into daydreams of Rosie’s sexy alto voice. She was the first person he’d ever showed his vision board to, and she hadn’t laughed. Instead, she’d asked questions and made suggestions as if they were discussing a concrete plan