8. Devon #2
I step backward and wave her to me. She drops the offending knife to her side, joining me in the hallway. “This one,” I tell her, pointing at the wedding picture. “This is Mrs. Lewis. The owners I knew.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Ember muses, tracing the mahogany frame with her fingertips. “I remember thinking that when I was dusting off the picture.”
“Absolutely stunning,” I concur. “She was old, even when I remember her as a kid. She used to sit in a rocking chair on the porch with a shawl pulled around her shoulders. Sometimes sipping tea, other times with a book in her hand. She had shorter hair then, silver like the moonlight, but it was always styled just so, and she would wear these large earrings, white pearls surrounded in gold. She would wave at us kids riding by on our bikes, racing in and out of town. Probably acting like fools.”
“Did they participate in the Fall Spectacular? Besides the Ball, I mean.”
“Oh yeah. Mrs. Lewis was a tremendous baker. She’d have a stand in the center of town.
Scones and muffins. Pies. But you’d never see anything like what she’d have available at the Ball.
The walls of the ballroom would be lined with food tables one after the other.
Homemade candies, finger food, cake. Oh man, the cake.
It was never the same after she passed. The first couple of years, Mr. Lewis tried to keep it going, but there was just something missing.
Everyone knew it. We tried to rally behind him, but one year, he announced there would be no Fall Ball.
It hit on a sour note, but not as badly as it would have if Mrs. Lewis were still alive. We all would have revolted.”
She peers at the picture again. “Those are big shoes to fill.”
“No one expects you—.”
“But I do,” she interrupts. She gives me a sly smile then walks back into the kitchen. “I hope you like peanut butter and jelly. It’s not cake or scones, but it’s what I got.”
“I didn’t know the gig came with meals.”
“Call it a peace offering…and I’m hoping your mouth will be so busy, it won’t have time to give me bad news.” She grabs a bag off the counter and holds it up like she’s in a commercial. “And I have chips.”
“Keeping that mouth busy,” I muse, but then my brain halts as my gaze drops to her pouty, red lips, immediately thinking of better ways to keep my mouth distracted. It’s hard not to have these thoughts when she’s this close. I can practically smell her vanilla soap from where I’m standing.
If Mrs. Lewis was a stunner, then Ember O’Malley is a goddess in windswept hair and clothes that cling to glistening skin.
A smudge of dirt always seems to take up residence on her somewhere, which increases her beauty tenfold.
Unafraid to get down and dirty calls to someone like me.
Someone who only wears suits at weddings and funerals, and even then, if it can be avoided, I will.
My idea of dressing up is my best t-shirt, a clean pair of jeans, and swapping out my work boots with sneakers.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asks, gaze locked with mine.
Then her eyes wander, taking in the stubble on my face, then my shoulders and arms. I take in a breath and hold it while she peruses me, my blood starting to simmer.
She then shakes her head, as if forcing herself out of a thought. “Well?”
“A little.”
“I swear every night I take a pound of dirt to the bath with me. Good thing there’s this beautiful claw tub upstairs. Roomy.” Her gaze flicks to mine as she wipes at her face with the back of her hand.
I swallow. She’s not talking about the tub so I can have the visual that just popped into my head, but it came in all the same. Toned legs, wet hair slicked over her shoulder, an arched back with breasts begging for my lips.
Well, this is going to be an uncomfortable few weeks.
My cock presses against my zipper somewhat painfully, and I close my eyes to will my erection away.
When I open them again, Ember’s standing in front of me.
Her innocent eyes like anchors, tethering me in place.
“Did I get it?” When I stare at her in a way that says nothing about comprehending what she’s saying, she reiterates with, “The smudge?”
She’s only smeared it more. Lifting my hand, I cup her face, and she gives a little intake of breath. It’s so quiet I could’ve missed it except my body is so attuned to her. “Almost,” I tell her. My voice low, gravelly. Sex-fueled.
Something in it must give me away because Ember’s gaze drops to my lips. Tension tightens around us like humidity, my dick swelling again, lengthening to a point of no return.
“Here.” I wipe her cheek in short strokes with the pad of my thumb. Her eyes fan closed, her lashes so long they leave shadows across her cheeks. Caught up in her, I slow the path of my thumb, caressing more than cleaning.
Her eyes slowly open, and I’m dumbstruck. Her face is turned up toward me, like an offering. I could easily close the gap, sealing my lips to hers.
“You’re very close,” she whispers.
So close I can feel the fan of her breath as she talks.
Aw, hell.
I drop my hand, swallowing. Taking a large step back, I put some distance and hopefully some common sense between us. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Without us in each other’s bubbles, we each take a deep breath. Mine rattles out of me like an old car trying to start. Or stop. I can’t tell which. “Sandwich?” she offers, holding out a plate.
Everything in me screams to get away, like the relentless wind against shutters on a stormy night. “I should get back to work,” I tell her. “Thanks though.”
“Well, here, take this at least,” she says, grabbing the sandwich and handing it to me. “I swear my hands are clean.”
Good God. I couldn’t care less about clean hands when the things I’m thinking are so dirty. What kind of man am I? I don’t like her, but I want her. She’s taken everything from me, but I still want to climb into bed with her. These are incoherent thoughts.
I’m not sure I even say a word. The next thing I know, my boots thud against the hall floorboards toward the front door and my hand clenches a PB&J.
Not the best first day.