Chapter 6
Eb
“Um, so, you’re naked.”
Marigold’s voice wobbles between shock and sass, and I’d laugh if every nerve in my body weren’t already strung tight as piano wire.
“Shifters are used to nudity,” I say evenly, as if that explains why I’m standing bare-assed in her bakery like a lunatic.
It’s true—but it’s not the whole truth.
There’s no good reason I’m still naked, other than the fact that my inner beast is purring like a damn engine at the sight of her, and I’m fighting the urge to grab, taste, and claim.
The scent of her fills the air—warm sugar, cinnamon, and that underlying note of her.
Sweet, heady, and addictive.
My Badger claws at the inside of my chest, pacing, snarling.
He wants her.
Wants to roll her beneath us, wants to scent-mark every inch of that soft, curvy body.
No. This is business. I’m here to fix this mess, not make it worse.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, crossing her arms, her voice a little breathless. “Um, this is a commercial kitchen, though.”
She clears her throat, averts her gaze—but not before I catch her eyes flicking down my torso to where my cock is jutting out, loud and proud.
My mouth twitches.
She’s trying not to look, but she’s looking.
And gods help me, that tiny spark of curiosity in her gaze makes something primal inside me bare its teeth.
Still, I respect her space.
I bend down, pull on my boxer briefs, then my slacks, taking my sweet damn time with the buttons.
Mostly because watching her pretend not to look is the best kind of torture I’ve had in years.
When I reach for my shirt, I catch her staring again—and smirk.
“Shifters also don’t gape at one another when we’re nude,” I tease.
Her cheeks flush.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a Shifter,” she fires back, chin tilted.
And hell if that doesn’t just make me like her more.
She can keep up.
She’s quick, sharp, and doesn’t take my bullshit.
And despite everything I’ve said, everything I came here to do, my Badger is practically humming, tail up, eyes gleaming.
He’s intrigued.
Hell, I’m intrigued.
“So,” I ask carefully, tugging on my cufflinks, “you’re saying you didn’t know about Shifters before this?”
She wipes her hands on her apron, moving around the kitchen like she owns the place—which, of course, she does.
“Yeah, I mean—no, not really. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Look,” she says, glancing back at me, the kitchen lights glinting off her curls. “I’m sure it’s a long, boring story, and I’d love to tell it to anyone who might be interested—”
Her eyes soften for a split second, and damn if that doesn’t squeeze something in my chest.
Then she straightens, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
“But, as you already pointed out, you’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“Not interested in me. So.”
That hits. Hard. And I wanna argue, but she’s not wrong. That is why I came here.
To confront this whole Date to Mate situation, tell her it was my brother and not me who signed me up, and to get out of this magically binding contract to attend Uncle Uzzi’s holiday shindig.
Only now that I’ve met her? Well, let’s just say I think my initial response might have been too hasty.
In fact, I’m almost positive that it was.
Yep, walking away now would be a terrible mistake.
But even if I’m not ready to admit that out loud yet, I know I’m not ready to end this conversation.
She dusts her hands, grabs a tray, and heads for the massive walk-in fridge.
“Well, thank you for coming by Mr. Rogers. I appreciate you letting me down in person, but I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.
So just fix the app thingy. Cancel the match or whatever.
I’ll move on to the next guy who is interested.
And you can go back to counting your gold coins or whatever it is Scrooge McDuck does in that cartoon,” she mumbles the last bit.
I freeze.
She said it lightly—like it’s no big deal—but it is.
My Badger bristles at her words, snarling inside my chest.
Move on?
The next guy?
The fuck she will.
I grit my teeth, but I don’t step closer.
Not yet.
“Marigold,” I say slowly, my voice a low rumble that makes her pause at the refrigerator door. “You think I don’t want to be here? You think I don’t—”
I stop myself before I say something I can’t take back.
Something like mine.
Because I don’t get to say that.
Not when I came here to—I don’t even know what. Confront her? Correct a mistake?
None of that feels right.
Still, I’m here now.
And I can’t help but stare at the way she moves, the way her curves sway as she works, the defiant tilt of her chin when she refuses to look at me.
She’s everything I shouldn’t want—and the only thing I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
Maybe I should’ve let the app have the last word.
Because the longer I’m in this kitchen with her, the less I care about breaking anything off.
And the more I want to break every single one of my own rules instead.
She finally turns to face me.
And for a second—just one—I forget how to breathe.
Those eyes.
Golden-brown, rich and deep, like honey caught in sunlight.
I swear I could drown in them, happily, if it meant she’d keep looking at me like that for the rest of my life.
“Look,” she says softly, brushing a smear of flour from her arm, “it’s late. I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and tomorrow I have to start baking at five so I can get everything cooled down and boxed for Uncle Uzzi’s party Friday.”
Her lips twist into a small, self-deprecating smile, the kind that hits me square in the chest.
“I know I won’t see you there,” she adds, with a note of quiet acceptance that I hate, “but I am looking forward to it. I love Christmas.”
“I bet you do,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
And I mean it.
Of course, she loves Christmas.
She looks like she belongs to it—the warmth, the light, the laughter.
Everything good and sweet about the season is standing right in front of me, wearing a damn apron that says Bake It Happen.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to think straight.
“You know,” I say, my voice lower now, more deliberate, “I didn’t eat either.”
Her brow arches. “And?”
I take a cautious step forward, heart thudding in my chest like I’m back in my first boardroom pitch.
“And maybe we grab something together. My way of apologizing.”
Her lips part, surprise flickering over her face.
I can see her waver, can almost feel it—the tug of something between us neither of us is ready to name.
Her pulse kicks up. I can hear it. Fuck me, I can smell it.
My Badger perks up immediately, smug as hell.
Yes. Feed her. Woo her. Keep her.
Down, boy.
“I don’t know,” she says, voice a little breathless.
“Come on,” I coax, softer than I mean to. “One meal. I’ll even let you pick the place.”
She stares at me, biting her lower lip, and I know—I know—I’ve said something right.
Her resolve falters just enough that the corner of her mouth twitches upward.
There it is.
That hint of a smile that could melt ice caps.
That moment where every single cell in my body screams mine even though I have no damn right to think it.
For the first time all night, I want to high-five myself.
And maybe my brother. But only if this actually works.
Because somehow, the woman I came here to push out of my life might just be the one thing I never knew I needed—and I’ll be damned if I’m walking away before I find out for sure.