My brows shoot up with a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course, I’m serious.”
“I’m almost thirty years old, Jamison,” I say. “I expect my daddy to keep his nose out of my business, let alone a man a year older than I am.”
He lifts a hand. “Calm down, Mad, I didn’t mean—”
“And for your information, I’ve shacked up with lots of guys right after I started dating them.” I rise to my feet, snatching my mug before he can get his hands on it again. “Before Serge and I got engaged, I slept my way through half the pretty boys in Paris. I spent weeks shacking up in their lofts and moldy basement apartments and falling in and out of love, and I enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Good for you,” he says. “I’m glad to hear you had the chance to sleep with a guy who wasn’t gay. Even if he was French.”
My jaws drops though I don’t really know why I’m surprised.
He’s never pulled any punches when it came to teasing me, and he obviously doesn’t intend to start now.
Still, that hurt.
It really did, enough to make my voice shake as I say, “Leave.”
“Kidding, Mad,” he says. “I was kidding.”
“Go.” I point a finger at the door. “Now.”
He stands, regret creeping across his face. “Seriously, Maddie. It was a joke. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“Yeah, you never mean to,” I say. “But you do. I’m not a little girl anymore, Jamison. I’m a grown woman who’s had a grown woman’s shitty year and I don’t need you picking on me on top of it.”
He reaches out, gently prying the coffee cup from my fingers and setting it on the table before taking both of my hands in his. “I know. And I’m sorry,” he says in a voice so low and gentle I almost believe him. “I really am. I apologize for being a jerk.”
I sigh and nod, only a little begrudgingly.
“Apology accepted?” He shoots me his puppy dog look, the one I’m sure he knows is nearly impossible to resist.
I roll my eyes, my shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “And thanks for calling me on my bullshit. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble as I loop my arms around his waist, trying to ignore how nice it feels to be pressed against his chest.
Jamison has hugged me lots of times—dozens of friendly hugs throughout the years—but none of them have ever made me this aware of the fact that he’s hard in all the places I’m soft.
Aware of the fact that his arms feel so nice wrapped around me, or that his smell is even more intoxicating up close.
He smells damned good, so good I can’t help lifting my nose to the place where his shoulder meets his neck and breathing deep. I hold the breath for a moment, eyes closing as a shiver works its way through me, from head to toe.
My lids open a moment later to find Jamison staring down at me, his brows drawn together and an unspoken question in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, my pulse speeding, hoping my strange effervescent feelings aren’t showing on my face.
“Were you…sniffing me?”
My mouth goes dry with embarrassment, but I don’t pull away. “Maybe,” I say defensively. “Maybe you smell good, okay?”
“And maybe you look really pretty without makeup,” he observes in a lightly bewildered voice.
“Ha,” I say. “Yeah right.”
“You do,” he insists. “I like your freckles. They’re cute.” His arms tighten around me.
“Don’t mess with me, Jamison,” I warn, not sure what to do with this tingling feeling he’s inspired or the way he’s looking at me.
“I’m not,” he says, a husky note in his voice that makes me wonder if he’s feeling this too—this crazy, unexpected, lustful vibe that makes me want to drag him into the kitchen and have my way with him on the food prep counter.
And then he leans down, bringing his lips closer to mine, and wondering becomes a suspicion.
The suspicion is seconds away from becoming a certainty—and our friendship dangerously close to being forever changed by a very unfriendly kiss—when a door slams outside, and Naomi’s voice shouts hello to someone on the street.
Jamison and I leap apart, staring at each other with twin guiltily confused expressions before I spin to grab my coffee and Jamison backs toward the door.
“Okay, well, see you later, Maddie,” he says, clearing his throat. “Thanks for the uh, talk, and stuff.”
“Yeah, you too.” I gulp coffee, trying to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has transpired as he flees into the street.
Naomi breezes into the bakery moments later.
“What was that about?” she asks, frowning as she jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Jamison looked like he was in here stealing cookies.”
I force a laugh. “No. He just wanted to talk about Faith and Mick. He thinks they’re moving too fast. He’s afraid Faith’s going to get hurt.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “He’s crazy. They’re great together. I know we were doubtful at first, but I think Mick’s gone on her, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I say “I told Jamison the same thing. I think he knows Mick’s on the up and up now.”
And he knows that you think he smells great and were totally on board with that almost-kiss that almost-happened.
Crap on a poppy seed cracker, you almost kissed Jamison!
What is wrong with you?
“Good.” Naomi unwinds her gauzy pink scarf from around her neck. “He should leave them alone. They’re happy, they’re good to each other, and I say don’t look for trouble where there isn’t any.”
“Exactly,” I say, ready to change the subject and get my mind off love—and lust—in all its forms. “Speaking of trouble, how many Tall, Dark, and Delicious Valentine’s Cakes do we have on order already? I thought the form said one hundred and twelve, but that has to be a typo, right?”
“No! It isn’t!” Naomi practically skips behind the counter in excitement. “I sold fifty more yesterday afternoon.”
“Wow!” My eyes go wide. “I mean, it’s a great recipe, but that’s insane.”
Naomi presses a hand to her chest and bats her eyes. “Well, thank you, it’s one of my best, if I do say so myself. But it’s the samples that sold it. That was a great idea. As soon as a customer had a taste, they were hooked.”
I grin. “Then I guess I’d better get my butt back in the kitchen.”
She snags her apron from its hook. “Get to it, lady. I’ll open up and then come spring you at ten when Lucy gets here so you can go home and get some rest.”
“I don’t need rest,” I say, grabbing the empty plate from the table and heading around the counter. “I’ll stay until closing. We’ll get twice as many cakes done cooking together.”
She smiles. “I know I should tell you to go home, but I like being in the kitchen with you.”
“Me too.” I return her grin, trying not to think about the fact that my curving lips very nearly touched Jamison’s.