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“Breast milk. Happy to extract myself.” His teeth catch his bottom lip in that naughty way he does.
“I don’t have any breast milk.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a lactating mother, you sicko.”
He gives me a slow sexy smile. “In exchange, I could give you some cream for your coffee?”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you have enough?”
“Ample. Two big vats of the stuff.”
I try to keep a straight face. I like this game.
“I don’t like cream in my coffee. It curdles.”
“It’s a delicacy.”
I know.
“Are you sure?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Positive.”
“Oh . . . shame.” He gives me a cheeky smile, and it’s all I can do not to drag him upstairs. Playful Henley is so very hard to resist.
“So . . .” He rocks up onto his toes.
“Actually, I do know where you could get some of the milk you’re after.” I act serious.
“You do?” His eyes flick around. “Where . . . upstairs?”
“Across the road at Taryn’s. Huge milk factory, full production.”
He looks at me, deadpan. “That’s not the milk I’m after, Juliet.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’m after a specialty boutique kind of milk only served here.”
“This boutique is members only.”
“Seems a shame to put a label on the factory, therefore nobody gets to drink it.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry.” I fake a smile. “There’s people lining up for a membership.”
“Like who?”
“My milk is no longer any of your concern, Mr. James.”
He rolls his eyes, and I push his shoulder toward the front door. “I only said that—”
I cut him off. “I know.”
