8
Dearborn’s kisses were dangerous.
Incentive for her to stay, as Karl had intended. Hot as Hades. Also temptation he sure as shit didn’t need.
Made no difference how long he stared at his bakery office’s laptop. Made no difference that he hadn’t seen her in over two days. He still couldn’t focus on his dairy supplier’s bare-bones website or his order-in-progress. His stupid brain didn’t give that first shit about stock inventory or budgets. Too busy remembering the slide of her soft breasts against his chest, the pressure of her plush thigh against his prick. The cinnamon-spiced taste of her tongue and woodsy scent of her shampoo or soap or deodorant or whatever the hell made her smell soamazing.
Wasn’t like he didn’t already think about sex whenever he saw her. But now that he’d had a taste of how it’d be between them, he was hungrier than ever to wolf down the whole meal.
Even after twenty years apart, though, heknewMolly Dearborn. If they fucked now, she’d dismiss what they had. Call it hormones and chemistry and history. Not—
Didn’t matter what it was. Didn’t even matter what it could be. He needed to get his act together. Trust building started today, and she’d be arriving soon.
Couple more clicks, and the order was in. Time to make the most bougie sandwich in his arsenal. Charlotte had suggested the flavor combination a few months ago, and the first time he’d solda batch as a daily special, customers had lost their damn minds, so it’d stayed on the regular menu.
With a bread knife, he split two fresh croissants from the batch he’d shaped and refrigerated yesterday, then proofed and baked off that morning. Stuffed both of ’em with goat cheese, thinly sliced pickled pear, arugula, salt-roasted almonds, and a drizzle of his usual wildflower honey.
As a rule, taste trumped presentation for him. But yeah, a few years back, he’d bought a pair of those big, fancy tweezers for special occasions, so he could place everything just so. He dug them out of a drawer. Used them. Put truffle potato chips on the plates too, the brand Athena pimped like it was her fucking job. Made a butterscotch latte and set out a bottle opener for the Italian blood-orange soda he’d gotten from the gourmet food shop in town.
Class all the way. Perfect for Dearborn.
Fifteen minutes to go. He stripped off his gloves, cap, and beard net, then washed his hands and snatched fresh clothes from his Subaru before hustling into the staff bathroom.
After brushing his teeth, he inspected himself in the mirror. The cap had flattened his hair. Looked like shit. Tossing aside his flour-streaked shirt, he splashed water over his head and patted and pushed and combed until things up top kind of looked better? Maybe?
A brisk knock at the back door. She was early, becauseof courseshe was.
Swearing, he pulled his new tee over his head, then heaved open the door just as she began to knock again.
“Ten minutes early, Dearborn.” Grumbling to cover his nervousness, he waved her inside. “Serve you right if I fed you expired deli meat for lunch.”
“Ah, threats of listeria. The classic first step in trust building.” Amusement curved her lush mouth as she strode inside. “Sorry I’m early, Dean. Did I catch you bathing in your dish sink?”
She reached up and flicked away a few drops of water from his cowlick. A moment’s glancing contact, not even skin to skin. But his heart still stuttered in his chest, his head tingled, and his whole body heated in an instant. Those drops should’ve becomesteam.
Unable to make a sound, he kind of grunted in response as he closed the door behind her.
Again: The woman was dangerous as hell.
He’d only seen her once since their first kisses had burned him down. Later that same night, when she’d taken a quick tour of the local Spite House while he tried to keep at least an arm’s length from her at all times. For a while, she’d kept edging closer and eyeing him with those fiery blue eyes, like he was her fully clothed, big-bellied personal Chippendale. Best feeling in his goddamn life, but yeah. No good for his resolve.
Those lustful looks stopped after Athena and Matthew warned her they could see inside most windows in the Spite House—and mentioned they’d removed the main bedroom’s curtains for cleaning the day before. The drapes would return soon, but since that bed was the only place where two people of their size could comfortably have sex—especially for the first time—he could almost see Molly’s plans for him go up in smoke.
Goddammit. But also: thank fuck.
Athena wasn’t charging much for a month’s stay. Which meant he and Matthew spent ten minutes cooling their damn heels while Molly actually bargained the rent upward.For fairness, she explained. But the two women eventually compromised, and Athena—after making sure it was okay with Molly—tackled hernew tenant in a hug. Molly had blinked a few times before cautiously closing her arms around Matthew’s wife, smiling, and squeezing back.
Something about seeing that smile, watching all that fucking bonhomie, had made his chest go warm and squishy. Would’ve suspected a heart attack, but cardiac events weren’t supposed to feelgood, right?
One more long, hot look in his direction—and no actual physical contact—later, she’d left for her last night at the B&B. And over the next two days, she’d moved in and gotten herself supplied for the month, with Lise’s and Athena’s help.
Meanwhile, the bakery had occupied all his non-sleeping hours.
Pretty often, weekdays didn’t give him enough time to get everything done. Coming in on weekends for brief stints, when the bakery was officially closed, to tackle the shit he hadn’t managed to do Monday through Friday—that was normal. What he’d done since Thursday wasn’t. Instead of heading home at his usual time, he’d spent Friday evening in the workroom. All day yesterday too, from dawn until bedtime. This morning, the sun hadn’t risen yet when he’d unlocked his store and suited up in his apron, cap, and beard net.
The time he intended to spend with Molly had to come from somewhere, which meant lots of prep. His freezers and refrigerators should’ve been bulging by now. To make things even harder, Janel’s anniversary party had been Saturday—yesterday—so there’d been extra work to do already. Canapés and other shit to bake, put together, and pack into Johnathan’s rusty hatchback, for the kid to arrange and serve at the party.
Karl was tired as hell. But one look at Dearborn—still in Harlot’s Bay, against all odds—and he could have hefted a damn semi. “You ready to begin our agreement?”
