Chapter 8
Dearborn’s kisses were dangerous.
Incentive for her to stay, as Karl had intended. Hot as Hades. Also temptation he sure as shit didn’t need.
Made no difference how long he stared at his bakery office’s laptop. Made no difference that he hadn’t seen her in over two
days. He still couldn’t focus on his dairy supplier’s bare-bones website or his order-in-progress. His stupid brain didn’t
give that first shit about stock inventory or budgets. Too busy remembering the slide of her soft breasts against his chest,
the pressure of her plush thigh against his prick. The cinnamon-spiced taste of her tongue and woodsy scent of her shampoo
or soap or deodorant or whatever the hell made her smell so amazing.
Wasn’t like he didn’t already think about sex whenever he saw her. But now that he’d had a taste of how it’d be between them,
he was hungrier than ever to wolf down the whole meal.
Even after twenty years apart, though, he knew Molly Dearborn. If they fucked now, she’d dismiss what they had. Call it hormones and chemistry and history. Not—
Didn’t matter what it was. Didn’t even matter what it could be. He needed to get his act together. Trust building started
today, and she’d be arriving soon.
Couple more clicks, and the order was in. Time to make the most bougie sandwich in his arsenal. Charlotte had suggested the flavor combination a few months ago, and the first time he’d sold a batch as a daily special, customers had lost their damn minds, so it’d stayed on the regular menu.
With a bread knife, he split two fresh croissants from the batch he’d shaped and refrigerated yesterday, then proofed and
baked off that morning. Stuffed both of ’em with goat cheese, thinly sliced pickled pear, arugula, salt-roasted almonds, and
a drizzle of his usual wildflower honey.
As a rule, taste trumped presentation for him. But yeah, a few years back, he’d bought a pair of those big, fancy tweezers
for special occasions, so he could place everything just so. He dug them out of a drawer. Used them. Put truffle potato chips
on the plates too, the brand Athena pimped like it was her fucking job. Made a butterscotch latte and set out a bottle opener
for the Italian blood-orange soda he’d gotten from the gourmet food shop in town.
Class all the way. Perfect for Dearborn.
Fifteen minutes to go. He stripped off his gloves, cap, and beard net, then washed his hands and snatched fresh clothes from
his Subaru before hustling into the staff bathroom.
After brushing his teeth, he inspected himself in the mirror. The cap had flattened his hair. Looked like shit. Tossing aside
his flour-streaked shirt, he splashed water over his head and patted and pushed and combed until things up top kind of looked
better? Maybe?
A brisk knock at the back door. She was early, because of course she was.
Swearing, he pulled his new tee over his head, then heaved open the door just as she began to knock again.
“Ten minutes early, Dearborn.” Grumbling to cover his nervousness, he waved her inside. “Serve you right if I fed you expired
deli meat for lunch.”
“Ah, threats of listeria. The classic first step in trust building.” Amusement curved her lush mouth as she strode inside. “Sorry I’m early, Dean. Did I catch you bathing in your dish sink?”
She reached up and flicked away a few drops of water from his cowlick. A moment’s glancing contact, not even skin to skin.
But his heart still stuttered in his chest, his head tingled, and his whole body heated in an instant. Those drops should’ve
become steam.
Unable to make a sound, he kind of grunted in response as he closed the door behind her.
Again: The woman was dangerous as hell.
He’d only seen her once since their first kisses had burned him down. Later that same night, when she’d taken a quick tour
of the local Spite House while he tried to keep at least an arm’s length from her at all times. For a while, she’d kept edging
closer and eyeing him with those fiery blue eyes, like he was her fully clothed, big-bellied personal Chippendale. Best feeling
in his goddamn life, but yeah. No good for his resolve.
Those lustful looks stopped after Athena and Matthew warned her they could see inside most windows in the Spite House—and
mentioned they’d removed the main bedroom’s curtains for cleaning the day before. The drapes would return soon, but since
that bed was the only place where two people of their size could comfortably have sex—especially for the first time—he could
almost see Molly’s plans for him go up in smoke.
Goddammit. But also: thank fuck.
Athena wasn’t charging much for a month’s stay. Which meant he and Matthew spent ten minutes cooling their damn heels while
Molly actually bargained the rent upward.
For fairness, she explained. But the two women eventually compromised, and Athena—after making sure it was okay with Molly—tackled her new tenant in a hug.
Molly had blinked a few times before cautiously closing her arms around Matthew’s wife, smiling, and squeezing back.
Something about seeing that smile, watching all that fucking bonhomie, had made his chest go warm and squishy. Would’ve suspected
a heart attack, but cardiac events weren’t supposed to feel good, right?
One more long, hot look in his direction—and no actual physical contact—later, she’d left for her last night at the B&B. And
over the next two days, she’d moved in and gotten herself supplied for the month, with Lise’s and Athena’s help.
Meanwhile, the bakery had occupied all his non-sleeping hours.
Pretty often, weekdays didn’t give him enough time to get everything done. Coming in on weekends for brief stints, when the
bakery was officially closed, to tackle the shit he hadn’t managed to do Monday through Friday—that was normal. What he’d
done since Thursday wasn’t. Instead of heading home at his usual time, he’d spent Friday evening in the workroom. All day
yesterday too, from dawn until bedtime. This morning, the sun hadn’t risen yet when he’d unlocked his store and suited up
in his apron, cap, and beard net.
The time he intended to spend with Molly had to come from somewhere, which meant lots of prep. His freezers and refrigerators
should’ve been bulging by now. To make things even harder, Janel’s anniversary party had been Saturday—yesterday—so there’d
been extra work to do already. Canapés and other shit to bake, put together, and pack into Johnathan’s rusty hatchback, for
the kid to arrange and serve at the party.
Karl was tired as hell. But one look at Dearborn—still in Harlot’s Bay, against all odds—and he could have hefted a damn semi. “You ready to begin our agreement?”
“As promised.” She scanned his workroom curiously, her gaze lingering on the sandwiches. “What trust-building exercise did
you have in mind?”
Frankly, he didn’t want to say. The whole thing sounded asinine.
He scratched his beard, shifting his weight. “Lunch first. Then we’ll talk about plans.”
Grabbing both of their plates, he led the way to his office. Before today, the surface of his desk hadn’t seen daylight in
years, but he’d put away or shoved aside all the usual crap. The scratched wood now gleamed. So did the silverware he’d set
out for them, the glass mug containing her butterscotch latte, and the condensation on her blood-orange soda bottle and his
own glass of iced tea.
Looked great, if he did say so himself.
She took the seat he’d placed in front of the desk. Shook out the napkin he’d carefully folded an hour ago and laid it in
her lap. Watched him while he arranged both plates and plopped down into his office chair.
“Thank you for all this, Karl. It looks incredible.” Posture straight as a queen’s, she neatly cut a bite-sized chunk of the
croissant. “I was surprised you wanted to meet at the bakery, though, instead of your house or even the Spite House. Don’t
you spend enough time at your workplace on weekdays?”
“Lunch ingredients are here,” he pointed out, then held his breath as she chewed her first bite. When she smiled, sighed in
pleasure, and forked up another, even larger bite, his chest actually puffed up like a rooster’s, because he was a damn idiot.
Her pale throat shifted as she swallowed, and she reached for her soda. “This is absolutely delicious, Karl. Although . . .”
His chest deflated, and he glared at her. “What?”
“Are you sure that’s the main reason we’re meeting in the bakery? Because it’s easier to make lunch here?”
Her smile had turned taunting, and his glare intensified.
That gorgeous shrew knew the main reason they weren’t meeting in a home. Give the two of them time, privacy, and access to
a bed, and they’d be naked faster than he could say I ruined my fucking plans by not keeping my dick in my fucking pants.
He didn’t bother answering her question. Asked his own instead. “You legally obligated to be a pain in my ass, Dearborn?”
“No.” She lifted her latte, lips still curved. “Just constitutionally inclined.”
He hid his snort behind his iced tea. “Yeah, you sure as hell are.”
Normally, not an issue. One of the things he liked most about her, to be honest.
But in this case—“That mean you’re planning to break my resolve? Get us into bed, even though you don’t trust me yet?”
When she shook her head, that coppery hair swirled around her shoulders. “I’m not going to pressure you into sex, Karl. I
don’t want a reluctant, conflicted lover.”
An emphatic statement. Before he could exhale in heartfelt relief, though, she continued.
“But if all our close, trust-building proximity encourages you to change your mind . . .” Her glass mug clinked against her
plate as she set it down. “Well . . .”
She raised her finger. A request for patience he didn’t have.
Slowly, deliberately, she ate another forkful of her sandwich before speaking again. Because . . . yeah. Dearborn was constitutionally inclined to be his greatest temptation and his greatest trial.
Chew chew chew. Swallow. Pat of her napkin to her lips. Sip of soda. More patting.