He would, though. It’d be part two of his Official Plan to Keep Molly Dearborn in Harlot’s Bay. He’d basically be making shit up, but that wouldn’t stop him.
As various stupid bastards said right before they parkoured to their goddamn deaths: YOLO, motherfuckers.
7
“—no idea why you won’t stay at my house,” Karl was grumbling as he swirled peanut butter icing over a tray of brownies. “Got an extra bedroom, and it’d be free.”
A generous offer, but Molly couldn’t impose on him that way. Besides, if he wanted to delay sex, actually living together for an entire month would screw that up. Literally. After a week, she’d probably just tackle him, lion-gazelle style, and startfeasting.
“I don’t feel comfortable with that, but thank you,” she told him for the second time, and ignored his low growl of discontent. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Still stubborn as hell,” he muttered, slanting her a scowl.
“Thank you so much.”
Another aggravated rumble.
“Is your stomach upset? Your digestive system...” She shuddered delicately. “It keeps making theseawfulsounds.”
With one hand, he kept icing. With the other, he offered her an upraised middle finger.
It was impressive, how his irritation didn’t slow down his work. No doubt he was used to laboring through crankiness, since even Oscar the Grouch could boast a cheerier baseline temperament than Karl Dean.
The shop’s lone baker had far too much on both his literal and figurative plates for a grumpiness break, as she’d quickly discovered that afternoon. Mere seconds after they’d agreed on the parameters of his half-baked—ha!—trust-building scheme, he’d told her she needed to put on gloves if she intended to touch anything that wouldn’t go in the oven afterward, ordered her to sling her hair back into a ponytail, and handed her a clean baseball cap to wear while in his kitchen.
The cap matched his, which definitely didn’t give her a certain warm glow of satisfaction, because that would be foolish.
Anyway, once she’d put on the non-warm-glow-inducing cap, he’d donned another beard net and begun making up for time lost during their earlier conversation. After throwing together a quick bagel dough and kneading it in his stand mixer, he’d set it aside to proof and began working on umpteen other tasks. Making pastries to be refrigerated and baked off the following morning. Mixing up various glazes and icings. Measuring out ingredients for a batch of cakes. Cooking homemade jams as scone toppings and cake fillings.
Other than a quick pause to answer his mom’s and sister’s texts, he hadn’t taken even a minute to rest.
“Coffee break soon,” he told her now, never looking up from his work. “Whatever you want, Johnathan’ll make. Sandwiches too, if you’re hungry.”
He’d almost finished icing his brownies, even as oven timers continued to sound at regular intervals. And somehow, amidst all that controlled chaos, he’d still considered her needs and how he could satisfy them.
If anyone had asked her yesterday whether watching a man multitask in a beard net and green, flour-dusted Crocs could be sexy, she’d have laughed and given the wrong answer.
Because oh, yes, it could be sexy. Especially if she considered other arenas where competent multitasking, attention to her needs, and strong, agile hands could prove helpful.
Their time apart definitely hadn’t lessened his appeal for her. She’d always liked men who appeared poised to find a cave somewhere and take a long winter’s nap. Tough but cuddly, with strong shoulders and arms and a solid belly. Karl’s wavy russet hair hadn’t thinned yet, his reddish beard had grown even more lush over the years, and together they only added to the overall ursine effect.
His faded graphic tee clung to those wide shoulders and his round stomach, and when he turned away from her, his equally faded jeans outlined nicely thick thighs and the subtle arc of his butt. Her palms itched to shape themselves to that tempting ass. Her fingers twitched as she imagined dragging her nails over tough muscle and soft flesh and hot skin.
His style hadn’t changed over the years. His body had only gotten better.
Looking up from his last tray of brownies, he caught her staring. “What?”
“Crocs, huh?” Once they’d slept together, she’d admit to ogling him. Not yet.
He shrugged. “Easy to clean. Back hurts less when I wear ’em.”
His job entailed leaning over his worktable all day, and neither of them was young anymore. No wonder his back hurt. Could he use one of those gel mats on the floor?
As she considered the matter, he remained stuck on her lodging situation.
“A month at Battleaxe would cost a damn fortune, but where else...” The swirl of his offset spatula suddenly halted, and he raised his head. “Got an idea. Hold on.”
Laying down the spatula, he stripped off his gloves and washed his hands, then disappeared into his back office.
