It was irrational, annoying, nonsensical. You weren’t supposed to miss someone you barely knew. You weren’t supposed to crave the sight of them, the sound of their voice, the scent of their skin. Not like this. Holy hell, I’d had the sweet pink rose of her nipple in my mouth. I could still feel its shape on my tongue like some lust phantom designed to drive me out of my mind.
I put it down to being mentally weakened by months of sexual solitude.
My one concession was to bake. For her.
Baking had always been a private thing, something I’d learned at my great-grandfather’s knee, but I had never sought to do more with it. But now? It had become both a challenge and intensely satisfying to come up with new ways to tempt and pleasure Emma. Feeding Emma somehow fed my soul as well.
She didn’t know that the brioches in her breakfast basket had been formed by my hand. She didn’t know the macarons—two each night, sent in a small box—were mine. But I did.
In moments of weakness, I’d close my eyes and try to imagine her soft lips parting over jewel-bright confections, pink tongue tasting the flavors of me—achieved by the strange alchemy of whipping egg whites, infusing creams, and straining ripe fruits, all melded together into an intense burst of flavor.
Had she preferred the inky-black chicory chocolate, the butter-rich caramel and burnt pear? Or did she moan for the juicy brightness of the grapefruit honey or blood orange and rose?
It was enough to make a man hard.
And aching for the sight of what he shouldn’t have.
Which was why I kept doing it. Maybe I wanted to be found out. I could just tell the woman I was the one making her food, leaving little treats that no one else staying at Rosemont was getting. But there was something about Emma Maron that reverted me right back to the awkward, bumbling geek I’d been in middle school.
Mamie hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said I was small as a kid. Small and shy. When I wasn’t on the ice, I was the guy most likely to hide away. Hockey had changed me into someone cocky, outgoing, fun loving. I liked that version of myself, but now that hockey was over, I realized that part of me was a role I’d been playing.
I wasn’t sure who the real me was anymore, but I knew I wasn’t prepared to march up to Emma’s bungalow with cake in hand.
Keeping to myself as much as possible felt like the safer plan.
Because playing it safe is what got you so far in life.
I hadn’t played it safe with the dessert I’d made Emma today, though. Already, I was regretting it. The choice was pure hubris. There was too much of me—of us—in it. But it was too late to take it back.
Emma
It was the pie that did it. And the kick of it was I didn’t even see it coming. I should have. The signs were all there. But I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been thinking about a certain grumpy hot man who I wanted far too much for my own good.
A man who apparently was avoiding me. I hadn’t seen him in two days. Once, I saw the back of him as he turned a corner, his stride—that freaking swagger that made me think of sex and sin—determined, as though he didn’t want to be caught loitering.
It was my fault for pushing, flirting when he was obviously resisting. Then again, he was the one who’d taken it so far I still shivered when I thought about him drawing closer, his gaze on my mouth like he wanted to devour it. Devour me.
“Ugh.” I flopped back on my sofa. “Stop thinking about him.”
Perhaps I should leave. Find another place to hide out.
My insides twisted. I didn’t want to leave.
Lunch arrived, breaking into my brooding thoughts. Yet another basket—this time brought around by a woman named Janet, who told me she was part of the house staff.
Was it worrisome that I was already salivating like Pavlov’s dog? Probably. But it didn’t stop the giddy anticipation welling up within me. I’d become inordinately excitable over daily meals.
The basket yielded a salad of baby greens and a canister of soup. An accompanying card written in a sharply slanting scrawl informed me that it was called avgolemono: a greek chicken-and-lemon soup. I had a choice of chilled chardonnay or iced tea to go with it.
And then I saw the dessert box. Delicious food aside, this was what made my day. These little treats that felt like they were made solely for me. Oh, I realized that everyone got the same desserts. But I let myself believe, if only for a little while, that they were for me alone.
Anticipation bubbled through my veins as I pulled the gold ribbon free. Inside was a caramel-colored tart about the size of my hand. Dark-golden custard had been piped in petal-thick ribbons to look like a flower. Just off to the side, as if touching down for a taste, was a tiny sugar honeybee.
My breath caught and held as my entire focus narrowed down to that bee. Forgoing a fork, I lifted the tart with my bare hands and took a large almost angry bite. And realized a few things. It wasn’t a tart; it was a pie. And it wasn’t caramel. It was honey.
Smooth floral notes of delicately sweet honey imbued the silky custard. Decadent but light, sweet yet rich. A honey pie, lovingly made. The tiny sugar bee, still perched on the edge of the flaky crust, mocked me.
That little bee nibbling on her honey pie.
A pulse of sheer heat lit up my sex, licked down my thighs, tweaked my nipples. I shoved another messy bite into my mouth, relishing the taste, wanting . . . him.
This was his work, made with his hands, his skill, his mind. My grumpy man with the ability to create sweetness in the most unexpected of ways.
Somehow, at the back of my mind, I’d known from the start. From the way he’d all but ordered me to try his brest. How he’d watched me eat it with that strange intent look upon his face. Pride. That was what it was. He was proud of his work.
I ate up my honey pie without pause, devouring it until it was nothing more than a sticky paste on my fingers, buttery crumbs on my lips. Moaning, I licked my skin clean like a cat might. I swore I felt claws prickling, aching to come out.
Because he had known, and I hadn’t. Was it a joke to him? What had he said? The chef was temperamental. Oh, how he must have laughed on the inside at that.
With a growl, I washed my hands and headed for the door, half of me more turned on than I’d ever been in my life, the other half ready to tear into the most irritating man I’d ever met.
It took him over an hour to return, carrying in bags of groceries. I sat in the far corner of the big kitchen, comfortably perched on the counter and eating another honey pie—this one sadly without a cute bee. Apparently, that had been just for me.
He didn’t notice me, which was what I’d intended, given that I knew the weasel would only pretend he was dropping the stuff off for the “chef” of the house if he saw me now.
God, but he looked good. Angry as I was, my eyes drank up the sight of him. Inky hair tousled and windblown, lush lips in that sullen pout. Dusky olive-toned skin smooth and dark against the white T-shirt he wore. The short sleeves of the shirt strained against his biceps, which bunched as he set down the heavy bags.
No one would ever doubt the man was an athlete; he moved with the assurance of someone who used his body like a machine—efficient, graceful, strong.
He turned to root through the refrigerator, and the tight globes of his spectacular bubble butt strained against worn jeans. Silently, he set a bottle of cream down, then reached up to the hanging pot rack for a saucier, exposing a sliver of toned abs as he did.