The Drop Zone

by Boyes, Shandi

  “That was a warning.” The sneer of my tone can’t disguise my joy that he is still here. “I’ll aim higher the second time around.”

  Spotting the fiery edge in my eyes, Cormack’s smug grin turns into a mammoth smile. “I don’t back down easily either.” He reads me more expertly than a stranger should. “Not when it’s something I desperately want and need.”

  I’m tempted to ask if there is any possibility that something will include me in the near future, but his charge across the room scatters my words as fast as my feet. I dump the egg on the ground so it doesn’t weigh down my escape, spin on my heels, then make a dash for it.

  The air in my lungs evicts in an ear-piercing scream when Cormack bands his arm around my waist not even two seconds later. Instead of requesting to be set down like a sane, sensible woman would, I scan my kitchen, seeking additional arsenal for my vault load of stupidity tonight.

  It’s also a great ploy to ignore the friendly fit of our bodies.

  By keeping my focus on rejuvenating my veins with oxygen, I attempt to ignore the rigid bumps of Cormack’s midsection splayed against my back. Or how him being a good four inches taller than me doesn’t stop our crotches aligning perfectly. I’m not thinking about anything but the roguishness of our exchange. The rest can wait. . . at least another minute or two.

  My impromptu scan of the area reveals nothing but bags of flour too heavy for me to maneuver in a hurry and my trusty tray of eggs.

  “Uh-uh,” Cormack grunts, hauling me away from my weapon of choice before more damage can be issued to his well put-together package.

  My frantic lurch secures two eggs in my grasp, but unfortunately, it sends the remaining three dozen crashing to the floor. Lucky for me, I only need one to exact my revenge—so two is a bonus.

  “Don’t you dare.” His warning holds no steam. His deep baritone is laced with too much amusement to convey anger.

  A smear of flour to his expensive suit becomes the least of his worries when I crack an egg on his thigh before rupturing another one on his cheek. Like it could possibly get any bigger, my mouth widens even more. This man was a stranger only minutes ago, yet I’ve socked him in the stomach, stomped on his foot, then cracked an egg with his face.

  What.

  The.

  Hell?

  If I weren’t on the verge of peeing my pants from laughing so hard, I would assess the situation with more diligence. Perhaps I’m dreaming? Surely that’s a plausible excuse. Otherwise, what other explanation could I have for my stupidity? I’m cackling like I’ve never cackled before, but can a good time outweigh morals?

  If you had asked me twenty minutes ago, I would have said you can’t have both. Now, I’m not just doubting myself. I’m skeptical on my entire life plan. I took on this bakery because it’s been in my family for nearly a century, but with its financial struggles sucking the marrow straight out of my bones the past six months, I forgot the real reason I won’t fold. I’m not here to make a million dollars. I’m here because I love what I do.

  The faint murmur when a customer sinks their teeth into a freshly baked éclair might not be the highlight of an average person’s day, but when you're a baker, you worship it like liquid gold because for all I know, that may be that customer’s only happy sigh for the day. Knowing that something so simple can give people pleasure makes the lack of fanfare worthwhile. It might leave me without a pot to piss in, but I’m rich with a substance money can’t buy.

  I land back in reality with a thud when Cormack’s shiny shoes lose traction on the egg yolks splattered around his feet. He bows forward before slanting backward, his feet slipping out underneath him like Bambi the first time he skidded across the ice. I mimic his movements, praying the mess on the floor will be the only one I’m left cleaning tonight. Egg whites are great for combatting oily hair, but yolk in hair as thick and wavy as mine . . . yuck!

  For the umpteenth time in my adult life, my prayers are left unanswered. In an almost comical performance, Cormack’s legs scissor high into the air before his backside impacts harshly with the tiled floor. Since I'm still wrapped up in his embrace, my fall is just as spectacular. I’m narrowly saved from landing on the rigid ground by his splayed thighs. My unladylike land in his crotch proves what I already knew: he has desirable assets front to back and back to front.

  “Are you okay?” My words are scarcely heard through the giggle/moan I’m releasing. The entire situation is hilariously degrading, but no woman with a pulse could ignore the thickness of a real man bracing against their core.

  When Cormack answers my question with a grunt, I scramble off him. The heat on my cheeks doubles as my eyes widen. With how slippery the ground is, I had no choice but to drag my ass over his crotch instead of respectfully holding my own weight.

  Well, that’s the excuse I plan to tell the cops when they arrest me for sexual assault.

  I won’t protest the charges. My boldness will be worth a night in lock up. I’d even do it again if it didn’t make me seem desperate.

  Rule 101: Never show desperation.

  It’s right above Rule 102: It’s not desperate if it gets you off.

  Like I’m not already on the verge of climaxing without stimulation, mayhem ensues. It isn’t the greasy mess seeping through my skirt that has my clit thrumming. It’s the scrumptiously delicious laugh of a man who was a stranger mere minutes ago. Cormack isn’t chuckling a half-hearted make your belly a little squishy laugh. He has the full-blown I’ll shred your panties off by using nothing but my eyes laughter. It makes me hot with need, but it also makes me laugh.

  I honestly can’t remember the last time I giggled without hesitation. I’m reasonably sure it was a couple weeks ago when I went out with Izzy and Brandon for drinks, and even then, it wasn’t this madcap feeling. I was so out of my comfort zone, I nearly called it quits within an hour of arriving at the nightclub Brandon had chosen. Blessedly, Izzy gave me an out just as the alcohol settled in my gut. Thank god. If she hadn’t, I might have accepted one of the numerous tacky one-liners I’d been issued all night. I'm desperate for adult company, but I’m not that desperate.

  I already weaseled my way into Izzy and Brandon’s duo by disclosing my fear of dying alone. I don’t need more pity-me points. Izzy and I only became friends because she is a customer at my bakery. She accepts my witty personality no matter the time of day. In my book, that makes us instant besties. It’s not every day you find an immediate connection with someone. Three months ago, it was Izzy. Today, it's Cormack.

  “Eldest sibling?” Cormack questions, his words separated by chuckles.

  I settle my laughter before nodding. “You?”

  His eyes glisten as he matches my nod bob for bob.

  “How many?” I ask, pretending I’m not on the verge of coronary failure from the mess surrounding us. I may be bat-shit crazy, but at least I’m neat.

  He scrubs his jaw before answering, “Three. You?”

  “Just one, but if he were here, we’d be wearing my entire pantry.”

  My last word comes out in a garble from Cormack brushing my cheek with the back of his hand.

  “You had egg on your face,” he explains, his rueful tone incapable of hiding his delight. He liked that my body bloomed under his touch nearly as much as I enjoyed his unexpected contact.

  “I’m not the only one sporting shells. You look like a half-cracked Easter egg.”

  I scoot closer to him but keep my hands fisted at my side. Let me tell you, it's a battle worthy of the record books. It isn’t that I don’t want to touch him. I just don’t want him thinking I’m using the tiniest bit of eggshell stuck in his blond brow as an excuse to get up close and personal. I am using it as an excuse—I just don’t want him to know I am.

  “May I?” I ask, pointing to his brow.

  He slants closer to me, granting me permission without words. The milky white skin on his forehead bunches when I carefully pluck the shell from his brow.

  “
See?” I show him the microdot, acting as if it's a hundred times bigger.

  “That’s nearly an entire egg,” he plays along, his tone lowering to match my lack of self-respect.

  My lungs lose the ability to expand and collapse when his fingers return to my cheek. The sparkle in his eyes is a clear indication he isn’t removing egg from my face. He’s merely touching me without permission. I’m not surprised by his forwardness. He seems like a man who is used to getting his way, so why ask first?

  “Harlow. . .”

  “Yes?” I can’t tell if his murmur of my name is a question or a statement, so I answer by asking one of my own.

  His exploration of my face descends to my collarbone. “Is there a Mr. Harlow?”

  The mad thud of my pulse tapping his fingertips should answer his question on my behalf, but in case it doesn’t, I mumble, “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  My eyes dance between his brilliant baby blues, struggling to work out if that was a good moan or a bad one. Perhaps if I’d known him longer than twenty minutes, I’d have more chance of easing my confusion?

  “Harlow. . .”

  “Yes.” This time I go with straight-up confirmation.

  He tilts in closer, replacing the watery smell of eggs with a spicy cologne. “Can I kiss you?”

  “W-W-What?” I bite on the inside of my cheek. That was worse than the blurted response I gave Arnie Frank when he asked the same question in middle school. His touch already has me heating up, so imagine adding his succulent mouth to the equation. Mind blown!

  “Can I kiss you?” Cormack repeats.

  “You want to kiss me?”

  If I didn’t need my hands to keep upright, I’d slap my face. I must be dreaming. Surely.

  “Yes.” He leans even closer. “Can I?”

  I don’t know what he had for tea, but it soothes the somersaults gurgling in my stomach, replacing them with a hungry grumble. I’m not hungry for food, though. I’m hungry for him.

  “Yes.” Our lips are so close, I practically kiss him when replying.

  “Yes?” he double-checks.

  “Yes,” I reply, my voice one I haven’t heard in longer than I’d care to admit.

  My heart goes crazy when he locks his eyes with mine. They don’t slowly flutter shut, and he doesn’t lick his lips in preparation for our kiss. He merely devours me with his eyes, wetting my panties more swiftly than my skirt absorbed the three dozen egg yolks we’re sitting in.

  Just before his lips brush mine, the bells above my bakery door chime.

  Cormack

  Harlow wrenches away, leaving me not just in a state of disrepair, but with a raging hard-on as well. As the scuffling of feet booms into my ears, she slaps her cheeks, trying to wake herself up. I’m tempted to do the same. I came here tonight with a game plan, only to leave with egg on my face—literally.

  Getting messy isn’t the only thing I achieved, though. I twanged a set of lusciously plump lips, flicked a bra strap, and acted like a man I once hoped to be.

  It’s fortunate the fire in Harlow’s eyes matches her personality, freeing me from the worry of being sued—again. I can’t recall the last time I acted so childish. I didn’t even behave like a child when I was one. Harlow brought out a side of me I haven’t seen in decades.

  I’ve heard many things about the woman behind the helm at Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven, but I was certain they were exaggerations. Very rarely are rumors true, but in Harlow’s case, they’re spot on.

  Her hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, isn’t quite red, but it’s not conservatively brown either. Her eyes are as unique as her hair color: an eclectic green with brown flecks. And her body. . . sinful enough that ruining a three thousand dollar suit with egg yolk can’t stop my zipper from biting my cock.

  I guess that’s my excuse for acting so idiotic? I either flicked her bra strap or removed it with my teeth. Considering the reason I arrived at her bakery well after closing hours is far from upstanding, I figured it’d be best to downplay my visit. Thank god my assistant Peta ordered a batch of unwanted cupcakes earlier this week, or I’d have no excuse for my late night arrival.

  “What is it with unexpected visitors tonight?” Harlow mumbles to herself as she attempts to stand.

  Her feet failing to gain traction on the tiled floor shouldn’t be entertaining, but it is. I didn’t just bruise my ass when I hit the floor with an almighty thump, my ego sustained a massive dent as well, so seeing her face the same issues is both refreshing and entertaining.

  “I’ll be right there.” Harlow projects her voice into the main area of the bakery. Her tone isn’t high nor overly nasal. Her perfect pitch reflects her elevated confidence but not in a snooty, look-at-me type of way.

  Her visitor mumbles a reply, but since I’m too busy calming my raring pulse from her egg-soaked skirt sticking to her sultry hourglass figure, I miss what he says.

  My heart thumps when Harlow balances on her hands and knees. If I were a gentleman, I’d offer her assistance, but with her backbreaking position amplifying the uncomfortable pinch in my crotch, I must remain seated.

  After several near misses, Harlow stands to her full height, which I’d guess to be around five foot eight without shoes. She clears the yolk from her hands by dragging them down her loose-fitting sweater, then she offers them to me. I accept her assistance, fighting the urge to pull her back into my lap where she was seated mere moments ago. If my common sense hadn’t arrived with her unexpected guest, I would, but with reality comes clarity.

  I just need my body to get the memo that I’m not here for Harlow, and don’t even get me started on my fucked-up heart. Instead of appreciating the extra thump our impromptu exchange generated, it’s assessing every snippet as if they're signed guarantees of future exchanges. They aren’t. I’m not in a position to take on more work, and Harlow won’t just add issues to my current payload, she could completely obliterate them.

  Furthermore, I don’t chase my heart’s desires. I beat them into a pulp.

  “Thank you,” I praise when Harlow drags me to a vertical position, proving her strengths aren’t just internal.

  With my tongue hanging out of my mouth, I slide across the egg yolk, using its gooey substance to my advantage. If I didn’t loathe my father, I’d give him credit for my above-par skating abilities. Not every child gets to train with professional hockey players when they're only ten. It’s a pity my father died years ago. It's also a pity I can’t stand the guy—dead or alive.

  “Good idea,” Harlow murmurs, copying my skiing moves.

  If you ignore our ruined clothing and sticky hair, we might look like a couple spending our first date at the Rockefeller Center ice rink. We have the cliché Christmas movie vibe down pat—huge smiles and all. Harlow’s nonchalant composure is refreshing. She’s covered head to toe in goop, yet her toothy grin never waivers. She either has the world at her feet, or she’s in the wrong industry.

  Because the bakery’s kitchen is so small, it only takes us a few glides to reach the other end. While I toe off my slosh-covered shoes, Harlow rolls neutral-colored stockings down her thighs. I don’t bother hiding my hungry gawk. No sane man would. Harlow is drop dead gorgeous, and she has a body the devil would wear a halo for, so you can be assured I’m watching in full anticipation, praying her panties soon join her discarded stockings.

  I’m left hanging when Harlow tosses the bunched-up nylon into a sink on her left. When her eyes drift to me, I nearly angle my body to the side to conceal a response a grown man shouldn’t have over a pair of stockings. The only reason I stay put is because I remember her staring at my crotch earlier. Now we’re even.

  “Oh, for the love of sugar,” Harlow mumbles, her voice void of shame as she stares at me.

  I eat businessman for breakfast; I transfer assets worth millions of dollars multiple times a day, but I’m left void of a retort to her unexpected but highly sought-after praise. I can also feel my cheeks heating.

&n
bsp; What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  I don’t blush. I’m a man, for fuck’s sake. Men don’t blush. We get red with anger or exertion. We. Do. Not. Blush.

  Before I can conjure a plausible excuse for my red cheeks, a cough breaks the silence. When Harlow’s eyes snap to the man standing at our right, the heat from my cheeks transfers to hers.

  With clenched fists and a jaw just as firm, she growls, “You again! I told you this morning, my business is not for sale.”

  The man chokes on his response when I pivot on my heels to face him. He recognizes me as quickly as I identify him, but before he can credit our association, I slant my head to the side and glower at him. Now is not the time for official introductions.

  After an inconspicuous nod, Levi returns his focus to Harlow. “I recall in utmost detail your response to my visit this morning.” His tone indicates Harlow’s earlier refusal wasn’t as polite as this one. “I just figured there was no harm in popping in to see if you’ve glanced at the latest proposal yet. The company I'm representing has been very kind with their offer. I’d hate for you to mistake their generosity as desperation.”

  The way he snarls “hate” makes the throb in my cock extend to my jaw. He’s not goading Harlow; he’s degrading her. If I hadn’t met her in person, I’d step back and let them handle their business—there are no friends in this fickle industry—but now it seems wrong to watch someone belittle her. I was literally seconds away from kissing her before Levi interrupted us, so how can I not defend her?

  “A respectable company would allow time to look over the proposal outside of business hours before strong-arming a vendor for an answer.”

  Levi’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down before his head joins the bobbing party.

  “Perhaps if you hand Ms. Murphy your card, she’ll call you once she has examined the offer more thoroughly. Until then, your purchaser must wait. No business matters, whether large or small, happen without legwork. You haven’t given Ms. Murphy the chance to stretch her legs, much less her brain.”