3. Lila
CHAPTER THREE
Lila
Candi may as well not even exist as Max stares down at me.
His broad shoulders, strong arm, rippling pecs, and chiseled abs—praise the sweet infant baby Jesus—are all tense beneath his tan skin. His startling green eyes remain fixed on me, the directness of his gaze sending a wave of heat rushing through me so intense I might drown.
I’d be worried he was about to launch himself across the few feet remaining between us if every cell in my body wasn’t suddenly welcoming that possibility.
And I’m almost positive he just called me beautiful.
I’d be able to tell if my brain hadn’t completely stopped functioning.
Then again, so has my ability to breathe normally.
My pulse is rapid firing, and I’m probably as red as a tomato.
I know for a fact my palms are so sweaty I might drop this cake before I’m able to hand it off and escape back to my house.
Although, perhaps ending up splattered on the ground won’t make it so obvious that I completely screwed the entire thing up in my frantic dash to enact my brilliant plan before my arch nemesis.
“Suffering sea stars,” I mumble, reality crashing back in.
When it comes to choosing between the two of us, Candi-with-a-fucking-I Honeycutt always wins.
As if summoned by my own insecurity, she glides into the silence and settles a perfectly manicured hand on Max’s bare and bulging bicep.
Again, my eye twitches.
“I’m sure my disheveled friend here has caught you a bit off guard with her…” Candi’s gaze drifts over me before settling on my lopsided cake. “…Exuberance.”
“Disheveled? You’re a witch!” I fire back as if that alone is explanation enough for my escaped from a hurricane appearance versus Candi’s glossy hair, flawless makeup, and literal magickal ability to remain picture-perfect in ninety-degree weather.
One dark eyebrow arches. “A little touchy today, aren’t we, Lila?”
My mouth falls open, but the only responses that come to mind are wildly inappropriate for polite society.
“I know Crescent Cove’s official welcome wagon has already been by,” Candi continues, “but I wanted to introduce myself personally as the current Frosting Queen.”
There it is. Again.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep the litany of very rude nouns swirling around in my head from tumbling out of my mouth.
I will not let her get a rise out of me. I am calm, cool, collected. I am… Super. Pissed. Off.
My teeth sink a little harder into my lip.
Max lets out a rumbling groan and drags one hand across his stubbled jaw.
Oh. Oh no. That should not be as sexy as it is.
The curve of his mouth. The rough shadow of stubble framing it. The way his thumb brushes along his lower lip before dropping away.
My stomach somersaults, and I can’t help but clench my thighs together.
His full lips move, and I automatically start nodding.
Could he be some kind of magickal creature I’ve never heard of before?
Something rare and big and muscled and delicious.
A supernatural being whose primary ability is standing around half naked and slurping the common sense right of women’s brains.
If he’s interested, I have more body parts that need slurping.
My pulse flutters between my legs, and my grip tightens on the cake stand. If I bite my lip any harder, I’m going to draw blood.
“I’m a judge,” he says slowly.
“Yeah, you are.” I blink, his words taking a second to register.
His delectable lips twitch. “You have cake.”
“Yes. I do. Cake. I have cake.”
Wonderful. What am I, a caveman?
Be more articulate, Lila!
“I, uh, I made it for you.” I lift the cake slightly before thinking better of it and balancing the stand firmly back against my chest. “As a sneak peek for the Summer Festival’s upcoming competition.”
His attention drops to the cake stand pressed into the soft mounds of my chest, his gaze lingering long enough to make my stomach flip before returning to my face.
“Like an amuse-bouche.” His voice is as rich and silky as buttercream.
I didn’t realize a man casually using French culinary terms could be so hot.
I swallow. “If you can eat it all in one bite.”
His lips part around a breathy laugh, and the horny little gremlin who’s taken over my body wants to dig my fingers in the cake just so he has something to lick off.
“Oh,” he says, voice dipping lower, “I can eat up every drop.”
Heat climbs my neck and floods my cheeks before spreading through my limbs like sunlight.
Max’s eyes don’t leave mine, and the air between us tightens until it feels like we’re the only two people on earth.
Everything else—the birds, the flowers, the ridiculous gift basket, even Candi—fades into the background.
I’m hopelessly lost in those impossible green eyes, lulled into a perilous sort of softness by that crooked smile, absolutely dripping for the broad, sculpted expanse of man chest taunting me with its nakedness.
As sunlight glides over every hard line of muscle, my horny gremlin goes absolutely feral, conjuring all sorts of lascivious images:
Me as the pastry, bent over the kitchen island and getting my own cream filling.
Him on his knees in front of me, that crooked smile all wet and glistening.
Me on my knees in front of him, choking down whatever cannoli those loose shorts are hiding.
My mouth waters with the thought.
Goodness gracious. I didn’t think my hormones could ambush me in broad daylight as a full-grown adult, but I’ve never been so turned on by meeting a neighbor in my life. Granted, most of my neighbors have known me since I was eating tiny fistfuls of sand at the beach.
Max’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. The easy smile slips from his face, and his jaw tightens. His pupils dilate, his expression turning from playful to primal.
A low, rough rumble sounds from deep within his chest. It’s barely audible and yet I feel it all the same. The vibrations skim over my skin like warm fingertips, and every tiny hair on my arms stand at attention while my insides clench.
Max is a shifter. He can smell my arousal.
And he likes it.
My pulse pounds so hard I’m certain he can see it fluttering beneath my skin, and I’m hit by the dizzying sensation that this man knows exactly what’s happening inside my mind. That he can somehow read every pornographic thought racing through it.
I tighten my grip on the cake stand until my knuckles ache, grateful for something solid to anchor me before I float away on a tide of wildly inappropriate daydreams.
Beside me, Candi makes a pointed choking noise, effectively dousing me with a bucket of ice water.
I blink, remembering with painful clarity that I’m standing in the middle of Max’s front walkway holding a lopsided cake while my lifelong nemesis watches every second unfold.
“Well,” she says brightly, turning her pageant-perfect smile on Max, “I’d say this first impression has certainly been memorable.”
Her gaze slides over me, lingering on the strands of hair that have escaped my bun, the streaks of frosting around my nails, and the increasingly questionable structural integrity of my cake.
“To be honest, Lila, I’m impressed with the amount of effort you’ve clearly put into your dessert. It takes real talent to make something as simple as baking a cake look like a contact sport.”
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
Her fake grin is stretched as tightly as mine.
“That wasn’t really a compliment,” she hisses.
“I’ve known you since Tater Tots Pre-K.” I tilt my head. “I speak fluent Candi-with-an-I.”
She tips her head back and laughs like we’re old friends at boozy brunch and not mortal enemies. “Oh, Lila. You’ve always been so spirited.”
Translation: You’ve always been too messy and loud and unapologetically human.
My fingers tighten around the cake stand.
For a therapeutic moment, I picture planting this entire three-tier delicious-yet-objectively-disastrous cake squarely onto Candi’s flawlessly moisturized, meticulously plucked face.
Maybe a decorative sugar pearl will get lodged in her nostril like we’re back in kindergarten.
Either way, it would be satisfying for at least ten seconds. Okay, twenty.
Before I can contemplate whether assault with buttercream carries jail time, Max reaches for the gift basket.
“Thanks, Candi.” He smiles politely as he takes it from her. “I appreciate you stopping by.”
Candi inhales, jaw unhinging as she readies herself to launch into whatever carefully rehearsed speech accompanies handing over a basket wrapped with that much cellophane. But before she’s able to utter the first syllable, Max turns back to me.
“Do you want to come in? It’d be a shame for that cake to end up on the ground before I get a chance to taste it.”
I blink. “You mean…me? Go inside your house?”
His expression shifts, concern replacing confidence. “Only if you’re comfortable with that,” he says quickly, adjusting the basket against his hip. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of predator or anything.”
He pauses.
“I mean…” A faint flush creeps up his cheeks. “Technically I am a predator. The whole fox shifter thing… But not like a murderer.” He winces. “Although, now that I hear myself say it out loud, that does sound like something a murderer would say.”
One hand abandons the basket long enough to rake through his hair before dropping to the silver fox charm hanging around his neck, his thumb worrying the pendant back and forth.
“You know what?” he mutters. “I probably shouldn’t have brought murder at all. I’m sorry. I just…” He gestures vaguely between us with the hand not occupied by the basket as a sheepish laugh escapes him. “I am saying all sorts of words.”
My heart does a weird little swoop as his ears turn pink. It’s so adorable I can’t help but rescue him from himself.
“I’d love to come in. Since your arms are full and everything.”
His arms. Right. Should not have brought my attention back to those.