He didn’t trust himself to say a single word. Just sat there and ate his damn food. When she figured out he wasn’t going to reply, Molly did the same.
The silence wasn’t weird, though. Not awkward. She clearly thought she’d won their most recent skirmish. Smiled while she ate. And he might be lust-stricken and impatient, but the woman of his fantasies was an arm’s length away, happily downing food he’d prepared for her and hoping her nearness would seduce him. Under the circumstances, it was hard to feel sorry for himself. Especially when he showed her the pavlova he’d made earlier, and her pale blue eyes lit with pleasure.
Her voice was hushed when she spoke. “Holy crap, Karl.”
Hard to preen without dropping a cake stand, but he damn well managed.
“Pavlova topped with shaved plums, orange-rosemary syrup, and vanilla-bean whipped cream.” Another of Charlotte’s ideas. Kid had a good feel for flavor and ingredient combinations. “Eat it and fucking weep, Dearborn.”
He set the footed stand in front of her.
“Only you, Dean.” She shook her head. “Only you could make the presentation of a gorgeous dessert sound menacing.”
“You’re welcome.” Grumpy at the thought of what came next, he stomped around his desk and dropped back into his chair. “Now stop bitching and shove the pavlova down your piehole, woman. I’ll explain our plans while we eat.”
“At least my throat can actually accommodate a pavlova,” she murmured. “As opposed to your hand.”
He didn’t even recognize the sound he made at that. Something between a growl and a groan. “Are you doing this shit on purpose, Dearborn?”
She didn’t answer. Merely gazed serenely at him while he fumed. Which was answer enough, he guessed. When she gestured toward the knife, asking mutely if he wanted to serve the dessert, he offered her his own gesture. With both middle fingers.
“I’d be more than happy to, Karl, but you won’t let me.” She cut herself a slab of the dessert, her lips curved in that smug smile he hated but also really fucking loved. “If we aren’t spending the day in bed, whatareour plans for the afternoon? Nothing too strenuous, I hope, since I intend to eat more than my share of this pavlova. It looksridiculouslygood.”
Dearborn sparked a million different emotions in him, all atonce. Always had. In this moment alone, there was pride. Frustration. Joy. Lust. Amusement.
And above all else: He feltalive. No one else on this godforsaken planet hadevermade him feel more alert and electric with possibility. The sensation might agitate him, but he wouldn’t lie to himself. It exhilarated him too.
He couldn’t get enough of it. Couldn’t get enough of her. Didn’t think he ever would. But sappy declarations would have to wait until she trusted him. Which wouldn’t happen until he actually got this stupid damn show on the road.
Quickly, he mowed down his pavlova—perfect; Charlotte deserved a damn raise—then pushed his plate aside.
“Here’s the plan: I’m gonna blindfold you,” he announced without preamble.
She choked on her mouthful of meringue. He had to sprint around his desk to thump her back. Once she could breathe easily again, he shoved her soda bottle in her hand and retreated.
Ears flaming hot, he muttered an apology and tried a second time. “Blindfolded trust walk outside. I’ll stand behind you. Give you directions.”
Her brows drew together. “To where?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” The spot in the Mayor’s Mansion gardens where he’d nearly kissed her, hopefully. He’d drive them to the historic area before blindfolding her. “Ready?”
“I don’t think I am.” Those sharp eyes narrowed on him. “Karl, where are you getting your trust-building ideas?”
“Dentist’s office.”
He’d gone back on Friday and—with the permission of the gorgon at the front desk—taken home the magazine where he’d first read about trust falls.
She blinked at him for a moment. “You asked your dentist? Or your hygienist?”
“Hell, no.” Discussing his plaque levels was as intimate as he cared to get. “Waiting room magazine had an article about trust building.”
“I... see,” she said slowly.
He shook his head, remembering the piece. “The dude who wrote the article was super into blindfolds. Blindfolded walks. Blindfolded obstacle courses. Even blindfolded putt-putt, which sounds like an absolute nightmare.”
Her brows drew together. “What kind of magazine was it?”
“Corporations Today.” Though it should’ve beenGenerationally Wealthy Old White Guys in Suits and Somewhat Younger, Also White Tech Bros Pursuing Venture Capital and Placating Shareholders at Any Cost Todayinstead. “Fortune 500 companies must be kinky as hell. Blindfolds up the fucking wazoo. Had no idea before I read the article.”
