My entire body reacts. My pulse jumps. My face flushes. I drop an entire stick of butter on the floor.
"Get it together, Quinn," I mutter to myself.
The back door opens.
I freeze.
Lanek fills the doorway, holding two paper coffee cups and a white bakery box that I know for a fact did not come from my shop. He's wearing his usual black t-shirt and heavy denim, his leather apron conspicuously absent, and he looks infuriatingly well-rested.
"Good morning, little baker."
"What are you doing here?"
"Bringing you breakfast." He sets the coffee and the box on my, thoroughly sanitized, prep counter and leans against it like he owns the place. "You didn't eat yesterday."
"How would you possibly know that?"
"I was watching."
"That's—" I sputter. "That's creepy!"
"That's protective." He nudges the coffee cup toward me. "Drink. You look exhausted."
I want to throw the coffee in his smug face. Instead, I pick it up and take a sip. It's perfect. Oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, the exact way I like it. Which means he's been paying attention, which means this is a problem.
"Lanek, about last night—" I start, forcing myself to look at him even though my stomach is twisting itself into elaborate knots.
"Best night of my life," he says immediately, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that makes my entire nervous system short-circuit. There's no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just absolute, unwavering conviction.
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the coffee cup. "It was a mistake."
The effect is instantaneous and devastating. His expression shutters completely, the warmth draining from his features like someone's pulled a curtain across a window. The easy, satisfied smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth vanishes entirely, replaced by something hard and impenetrable. His dark eyes go flat, unreadable.
"A mistake," he repeats slowly, as if testing the weight of the word on his tongue.
"Yes. We were both running on adrenaline and stress and it just, it happened. But it can't happen again. We're business neighbors. We need to keep things professional."
He's silent for a long, terrible moment, his dark eyes searching my face. I hold his gaze, to project confidence I absolutely do not feel.
Finally, he straightens to his full, towering height. "Professional."
"Exactly."
"So when I had you pinned to that counter, begging for my cock, that was professional?"
My face ignites. "That's not—you can't just?—"
"When you came so hard you nearly broke my fingers, was that professional, Quinn?"
"Stop it."
"When I was buried so deep inside you I could feel your heartbeat, was that?—"
"Lanek, stop!" I'm shaking, my hands clenched into fists. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I don't—I can't?—"
He moves so fast I don't have time to react. One second he's across the kitchen, the next he's right in front of me, his hand cupping my jaw, tilting my face up to his.
"Liar," he says softly, the word barely more than a breath against my skin.
