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She took the donut dough out of the proofing bowl, punched it down, sprinkled flour on the marble kitchen island, and rolled out the dough. Using a paring knife, she cut out her handprint over and over before setting the shapes out on a baking sheet to rise.
All of this silence was getting to her, so she pulled out her smartphone and cranked up Marilyn Manson before moving on to the oatmeal cookies.
She mixed the ingredients from memory, minus the raisins everyone seemed to love in this damn cookie. She hated raisins. On the whole, grapes were fine, but only before they dried up into shriveled raisins. Seriously, who in their right mind wanted to eat desiccated fruit?
With a cookie scoop, she plopped down mountains of oatmeal cookie dough into rows on a parchment-covered baking sheet, then popped them into the oven and went back to her donuts.
She flipped up the dish towel she’d used to cover them. After the finger test showed that the dough had risen just the right amount, she picked up the baking sheet and took it to the fryer. The oil was at a perfect three-fifty.
Abruptly, her music stopped, and a male voice said from behind her, “Do you always bake in a bikini and high heels?”
She jumped a foot in the air and nearly dropped the baking sheet into the hot oil. Damn it, she hated being sneaked up on.
She knew what she was going to find before she turned, and sure enough, she was right. Dalton was standing there in a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit that made his black hair and green eyes pop even more than they had yesterday. It also made him even more panther-like.
She felt that tug deep inside of herself again, the one that told her she wanted this man every way she could have him. The fact that she couldn’t have him only made her voice bitchier as she countered, “Do you always walk into other people’s houses without knocking?” She fashioned the first hand into a stiff middle finger and placed it in the oil before stepping back and leaning against the counter.
“I did knock, but you couldn’t hear it.” He pointed to her smartphone. “Always listen to your music so loud? At that decibel level, you’re looking at another two years before the hearing loss kicks in.”
“Thanks, Dr. Oz, I’ll keep that in mind.” She pulled the first batch of cookies out of the oven.
“Are those oatmeal raisin cookies?” He sounded hopeful, but she wasn’t in the mood for company. Especially not company she was tempted to spread whipped cream all over before slowly licking it off.
“No.” Technically, they were oatmeal raisinless cookies.
“They smell like oatmeal raisin cookies.” He popped one in his mouth. “Taste like oatmeal raisinless cookies.”
And damn it, it didn’t help her little problem that he had the same damn sense of humor that she did. The bastard. Not that she had any intention of showing him how much he turned her on. She might be reckless, but she didn’t do suicide missions, and the tiny voice at the back of her mind, which she usually ignored, told her that tangling with Dalton was going to fuck her up way more than she already was.
She was determined not to ignore it today, especially after last night’s close call.
“So, not only do you break and enter, but now you’re stealing food?” Too bad she’d left her guns by the pool. She could nip this thing—whatever it was—in the bud. “You Fort Worthers are weird. In San Angelo we have better manners.”
His eyes roamed down her body. “Do y’all bake in bikinis? I’ve never been to San Angelo, but I just might move there so I can watch the bikini baking team.”
“Pervert.” As she turned back to the frying donut, she mashed her lips together to hide her smile. Apparently he liked the way she looked in her bikini—maybe as much as she liked him in that suit.
A quick test told her the donut was ready. Using a metal spider, she fished it out and covered it with a lemon glaze.
“Is that what I think it is?” Dalton’s dark-green eyes turned huge.
“Depends on what you think it is.” She arranged the donut on a plate so that the middle finger was the focal point, then aimed it straight at him. “If you think it’s a donut flipping you off, you’d be correct.”
“Can I have it?” He stepped into her personal space. He was so close she could smell him—sandalwood and something underneath it that was all male.
“No, this one’s mine.” She didn’t back away or back down. Instead, she sucked in the middle finger and bit it off at the root. The smoldering look he gave her conjured images of her mouth swallowing something else entirely. So much for the voice in the back of her head.
Of course, she nearly choked on the mouthful of dough, but the look on his face made it almost worth it.
“Fine.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, folded it, and hung it on a kitchen chair back. “I’ll make my own.”
Clearly, he wasn’t one to throw his clothes down. It appeared that he liked order. Which made her wonder, if she ripped his clothes off, would he put the groping on hold long enough to pick them all up and fold them?
Not that she was going to find out, but it was a question to ponder. Especially as he rolled his sleeves up and picked up a dough hand. “You want to give me a hand with this?”
His attempt at a joke was lame at best.
She figured the only way to counter was to go lame right back. She handed him another hand. “There you go.”
