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“The oven’s upstairs.” He walks toward the back of the store. Running away from my apology. “But I’m not sure I have everything needed to bake anything.”
“If you have flour, sugar, and eggs, we can figure something out.” I follow him, not entirely convinced ignoring what happened the other night is the best idea but willing—and relieved—to forget it if he does.
At the bottom of the stairs, I step aside. Breath catches in my throat when he places a hand firmly on the small of my back offering me the lead.
Once the initial surprise wears off, I let the breath flow along with the heat through my center that blooms under his palm.
“After you.” The confidence in both his voice and his touch lights a fire deep in my belly. One that had me wishing we were on our way to his apartment for an entirely different reason.
And I might have let myself believe he is if I wasn’t, once again, wearing my sauce-stained whites and smelling like an amalgamation of meat and vegetables topped with too much garlic.
That’s it. I’m packing a bag before work from now on.
After I take a few steps up the stairs, Daniel’s hand falls away.
Damn.
I glance over my shoulder. Then whip my gaze forward again.
Oh my God. Was he staring at my ass?
I take another peek behind me.
Yep. Totally staring at my ass and not paying a bit of attention to me to realize I’ve caught him in the act.
In that case…
Still eyeing him, I put a little extra swing in my step.
Daniel’s eyes widen, then flick up to lock on mine.
I expect him to blush and look away when he realizes he’s been caught. To my surprise and pleasure, he maintains eye contact as his lip turns up into a wicked grin.
Facing forward, I try to hide the heat rising to my cheeks.
Okay… So, the whites aren’t the turn-off I thought they were.
There isn’t much of a hallway at the top of the stairs. Barely more than a landing. I aim to stand on the far side of the apartment door but before I take two steps off the stairs, Daniel stands behind me, trapping me between the door and his body as he turns the key in the lock.
Oh, dear me, his chest is just as firm and warm as I imagined. It takes every ounce of self-control not to lean back into him or turn around and mark him like a cat, rubbing my cheeks against his chest.
“Here we are,” he says, swinging the door into the apartment.
I don’t move. I can’t. All I want is to turn into the warm, protective presence at my back. Drown in every one of those half dozen spices hovering around him.
But then that hand of his finds its way home, landing again on the small of my back to usher me inside.
