“I don’t sayyummy. And I didn’t say it was bad.” Swiping my finger through the silky yellow mass, I pop the quick taste in my mouth. Tart and sweet. All-around perfect. “The filling is good.”
“Too late. You’ve ruined your chance at blindly complimenting me.” Juliet fists her hands, planting them on my desk. All the better to glare at me. “Do you accept my apology?”
The question sounds like a threat.
One of the hardest fights in my life occurs at this moment because all my mouth wants to do is grin at her.
But then she might shove the pointy end of the pencil she’s still gripping into my neck.
Instead, I opt for a stoic nod.
“And?” She growls the word at me, and I wonder if she might have a little wolf in her.
If not, I’d like to put it there.
Surprisingly, that sentiment was fully my own.
Dirty thoughts aside, I repeat her. “And?”
“And areyougoing to apologize tome?”
If I were thinking straight, I could probably come up with something. But as Juliet leans over my desk, the neck of her shirthangs low, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage, nestled in a floral bra. My wolf silently whines with want.
“For what?” I murmur, distracted by what she might taste like if I drew my tongue up the little valley between her breasts. Would she be sweet, tart, or a perfect mixture of the two, just like her pie?
The view disappears, and I blink to clear my mind, finding the librarian delivering another withering scowl.
“Maybe by the time you’re done eating my subpar pie, you’ll figure it out!”
To emphasize her fury, she chucks the pencil pieces out the open window before stalking out of my office. The door rattles on its hinges when she slams it shut behind her.
With her gone, I sit in silence for a minute or two, reliving every word she spoke to me. By the end of the replay, I’ve accepted a fact I’ve been avoiding for months.
I want Juliet Adair, and the craving isn’t going away.
Rummaging through one of my desk drawers, I come up with a fork. Before the first bite even enters my mouth, I can feel myself grinning.
Because finally, I’m feeling selfish enough to claim what I want.
22
JULIET
The blanket is a cozy,warm furnace around my shoulders, enticing me deeper into my cushy chair. My setup is perfect. Glass of wine, good book, snug seating.
When a knock comes at my front door, I mutter a string of curses.
Really? Someone decides to visitnow?
The odd hour registers, and my irritation shifts into trepidation, my pulse thundering harder.
Why is someone coming to my house so late in the evening?
Reluctantly, I leave my blanket behind and pad on my sock-covered feet to the hallway. Once again, I remember to use my security system, pressing the button to switch on the camera for my front porch.
There, standing in all of his grumpy glory, is Roderick fucking Jameson.
Mr. Pie Judge himself.
