“As promised.” She scanned his workroom curiously, her gaze lingering on the sandwiches. “What trust-building exercise did you have in mind?”
Frankly, he didn’t want to say. The whole thing sounded asinine.
He scratched his beard, shifting his weight. “Lunch first. Then we’ll talk about plans.”
Grabbing both of their plates, he led the way to his office. Before today, the surface of his desk hadn’t seen daylight in years, but he’d put away or shoved aside all the usual crap. The scratched wood now gleamed. So did the silverware he’d set out for them, the glass mug containing her butterscotch latte, and the condensation on her blood-orange soda bottle and his own glass of iced tea.
Looked great, if he did say so himself.
She took the seat he’d placed in front of the desk. Shook out the napkin he’d carefully folded an hour ago and laid it in her lap. Watched him while he arranged both plates and plopped down into his office chair.
“Thank you for all this, Karl. It looks incredible.” Posture straight as a queen’s, she neatly cut a bite-sized chunk of the croissant. “I was surprised you wanted to meet at the bakery, though, instead of your house or even the Spite House. Don’t you spend enough time at your workplace on weekdays?”
“Lunch ingredients are here,” he pointed out, then held his breath as she chewed her first bite. When she smiled, sighed in pleasure, and forked up another, even larger bite, his chest actually puffed up like a rooster’s, because he was a damn idiot.
Her pale throat shifted as she swallowed, and she reached for her soda. “This is absolutely delicious, Karl. Although...”
His chest deflated, and he glared at her. “What?”
“Are yousurethat’s the main reason we’re meeting in the bakery? Because it’s easier to make lunch here?”
Her smile had turned taunting, and his glare intensified.
That gorgeous shrew knew the main reason they weren’t meeting in a home. Give the two of them time, privacy, and access to a bed, and they’d be naked faster than he could sayI ruined my fucking plans by not keeping my dick in my fucking pants.
He didn’t bother answering her question. Asked his own instead. “You legally obligated to be a pain in my ass, Dearborn?”
“No.” She lifted her latte, lips still curved. “Just constitutionally inclined.”
He hid his snort behind his iced tea. “Yeah, you sure as hell are.”
Normally, not an issue. One of the things he liked most about her, to be honest.
But in this case—“That mean you’re planning to break my resolve? Get us into bed, even though you don’t trust me yet?”
When she shook her head, that coppery hair swirled around her shoulders. “I’m not going to pressure you into sex, Karl. I don’t want a reluctant, conflicted lover.”
An emphatic statement. Before he could exhale in heartfelt relief, though, she continued.
“But if all our close, trust-building proximity encourages you to change your mind...” Her glass mug clinked against her plate as she set it down. “Well...”
She raised her finger. A request for patience he didn’t have.
Slowly, deliberately, she ate another forkful of her sandwich before speaking again. Because... yeah. Dearborn wasconstitutionally inclinedto be his greatest temptationandhis greatest trial.
Chew chew chew. Swallow. Pat of her napkin to her lips. Sip of soda. More patting.
With that last napkin-dab, the final dregs of his limited patience drained away.
He threw his hands in the air. “I swear toChrist, Dearborn, I’ll reach down to your fucking vocal chords andrip the goddamn words—”
“As I was saying: If all that close proximity changed your mind, I wouldn’t weep,” she finally concluded. “Also, side note: Your hand is too big to fit down my throat.”
He had to close his eyes for a moment.
No more talk about big things fitting down her throat. Jesus H. Christ.
“Even if it did fit, I wouldn’t be able to speak intelligibly around the obstruction.” Classic Dearborn. Calmly discussing logistics while his brain and libido both exploded. “Your threat is both impractical and self-defeating, Dean.”
