Delicious

by Lori Foster, Lucy Monroe, Sarah Little

  It had taken a lot less time than he thought it would. There was a line out the door at DiMartini’s—there always was, and their food was always worth it—but someone had just called to cancel an order. Coincidentally, it was the same order Dan had just placed—one large pie, half veggie special, half pepperoni. So Dan grabbed it and still had time to get a bottle of wine before heading over to Mona’s. He thought beer went better with pizza, but this was a date, dammit. He was going to give her wine.

  He rang the doorbell again. Maybe she had changed her mind. She’d seemed so sure, though. She’d seemed as enthusiastic as he was. This was right. He had never felt so strongly about something as he did about his need to be with her. His instincts had never overruled his head before. This had to be right.

  But where was she?

  Maybe she had tripped and fallen again. She did seem to have baked goods all over the floor of her food truck earlier that day; maybe she had a housekeeping problem. Maybe she’d spilled some pie filling and now she was lying helpless on the kitchen floor and it was up to him to save her!

  Or maybe she was standing him up. Maybe she was hiding under the counter, peeking out the lace curtains to see if he would go away. Either way, he had to get in to make sure. He would either get answers or save her life.

  He tried the doorknob; it opened easily. He shouted out, “Hello?” but he didn’t get a response. He did hear some noise coming from the back of the house, so he maneuvered inside with the pizza box and the wine (he had left his briefcase in the car—no need to rehash the graph argument again) and walked toward the noise.

  As he got closer, he realized the noises were coming from the kitchen, a really nice, modern kitchen that looked a lot more updated than the arts-and-crafts style of the rest of the house. There were four ovens built into the wall, stacked two on top of each other. Between the ovens was a massive six-burner gas stove with a big, industrial-looking vent over the top of it. There was a small island in the center of the room, piled high with dirty pans and dishes.

  The noise, it turned out, was water. There was a dishwasher running on the far side of the kitchen, next to the big, industrial sink. There, in front of a large window that looked out over a dark yard, was Mona. She was pulling down a spray head, rinsing off cookie sheets and standing them up in a large drainer next to the sink.

  And she was dancing.

  She had changed. Well, mostly. He was glad to see she still wore the cute pink tank top, even if it did say Apple of My Pie across the front. But instead of the slim cropped jeans she’d had on earlier, now she wore tiny black cotton shorts. They were . . . short. They showed off her legs, which were tan and strong and surprisingly long for such a short woman. And the shorts also hugged her bottom, showing off her curves as she wiggled and shook to the music playing through the headphones plugged into her ears.

  He didn’t want to stop her. God, she looked amazingly cute. But the pizza was getting cold and the wine was getting heavy and, damn, those shorts were making his hands itch.

  She must have seen his reflection in the kitchen window because suddenly she screamed and spun around, her eyes wild, and aimed the spray of water at him.

  “Heglb!” he sputtered

  “Oh! Crap! Dan!” she shouted.

  She dropped the sprayer and the flow of water stopped. She rushed toward him, and he hoped she had a towel because his head was soaked.

  “Did you ruin the pizza?” she asked, grabbing it from his hands.

  He was sure he had about half a gallon of water in his ears, and she was asking about the pizza?

  She threw the box on the counter and tossed the lid open. “Perfect,” she said as she inhaled. “The box is just a little wet on the top. We’re fine.” She finally turned around and looked at him. “Oh, my God, you’re soaked!”

  “I know,” said Dan, using his mostly wet sleeve to push his wet hair out of his eyes. “Do you have a towel or something?”

  She ripped open a drawer and tossed him a dish towel, and he got to work rubbing the deluge out of his hair. “Sorry for soaking you.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said at the same time.

  They looked at each other, and he laughed. She put her hand over her heart, but eventually she laughed, too. “How did you even get in here?”

  “The door was open.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot I left it open for you. That was fast, though. I thought you would be at DiMartini’s for a while. I thought I’d have more time to do some of these dishes.” She swept her hand over the island. “And now you’re soaked.”

  Dan wanted to shake it off, to act like it was no big deal. But he was really, really wet. His shirt was sticking to him, and water was running down his back. He ran the towel over his waist, trying to at least keep his pants dry. He was pretty sure he wanted to end the night with his pants off, but this seemed a little soon.

  “It’s OK,” he lied. “Do you have another towel?”

  She left the kitchen and came back with a fluffy yellow towel and something folded into a tight bundle.

  “Sorry, it’s the only shirt I have that will fit you.”

  He unrolled it. It was a T-shirt, and it looked big enough. It said Apple of My Pie across the chest. And it was pink.

  Mona tried not to sneak a peek as Dan peeled off his wet shirt. She turned demurely to the sink to give him some space. So what if she could still see him in the reflection of the dark kitchen windows? That wasn’t her fault. That was science.

  She hadn’t been wrong about his shoulders when they had kissed that afternoon. They were broad and they looked strong, and as he pulled his wet shirt off, his abs flexed. Dang, he had a six-pack. And a smattering of hair on his chest, a chest that looked broad and strong like his shoulders. And those arms.

  No way were those accountant arms.

  She averted her eyes before he caught her gawking, and when he said she could turn around, she had to laugh. There was nothing else she could do. The shirt was silly and pink, but it fit him snugly and showed off his gorgeous man-shape and he looked so sexy. Sexy and pink.

  “Hey, it’s your shirt,” he said.

  “No, it’s not that, it’s—” But she stopped when she saw that he was laughing, too. “It actually looks really good on you.”

  “Thanks. I think?”

  Mona tried to regain her composure. He was sexy, but she was hungry, and that pizza smelled really good. “Um, I guess I’ll just—”

  “Let me help,” he said, reaching into the drawer to pull out a clean dish towel.

  “No, that’s—”

  “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can eat that wet pizza.”

  Mona’s stomach growled.

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “We can eat now, if you want.”

  God, yes, she wanted to eat. She wanted to eat him up in all of that pink sexiness.

  But good sense—and actual food hunger—won out. “Better do this first. I have a bunch of prep to do for tomorrow. It will be easier if I can work in stages.”

  They turned to the sink, and soon they settled into a comfortable rhythm. She scrubbed, then rinsed, then passed to Dan. He shook into the sink, then dried, then piled everything on the counter in neat piles according to size and style of pan. Mona had to smile at that; she was never that organized with her clean dishes.

  “You really do have a lot of work to do, don’t you?”

  “We’re almost done,” she said, pulling the last small pile of dirty pans into the soapy water.

  “No, I don’t mean washing all these dishes. Although it is a lot, especially for one person. I was just thinking that, at some point, you had to fill all of these pans with food.”

  “From scratch,” she added.

  She heard him give a little laugh. “I guess that’s why you don’t want to do this all the time.”

  Not this again, not already.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to . . . I’m not trying to
start an argument.” He put down the last clean pan and draped the towel over the side of the sink. “I’m not, I swear.” He reached out, and Mona found herself pulled toward him, her hips resting against his, his arms in a light hold around her waist.

  “Then what are you trying to do?” she asked, shuffling her feet closer to his.

  He pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I’m just trying to understand you, that’s all.”

  “Trying to understand me so you can tell me how to run my business better?”

  He leaned his forehead against hers, and even up so close, she could see that he had closed his eyes. “No. I’m not. It is hard for me to understand why you won’t even listen to my advice . . .”

  She snorted.

  He lifted his head and looked at her. “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t pick a fight every time we talk about business.”

  Was this him flirting with her? His moves could use some work.

  “I mean, we both run businesses, it’s a big part of each of our lives,” he said. “It’s bound to come up.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a patronizing ass?” She tried to pull away, but he held her firm with those unnaturally strong accountant arms.

  “Not to my face.” He shrugged.

  She had to laugh at that. But she only laughed a little, because he was still a patronizing ass. Even if he was a funny patronizing ass.

  “I just want to get to know you better. I mean, how long have we known each other?” he asked. “Years, right? And all we’ve ever talked about is business. That’s all I know how to talk to you about.”

  “This doesn’t bode well for us, then, does it?” she asked his damn clear, blue eyes.

  “What I mean is, I’m going to be rusty about talking to you about other things. But I want to. I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me. I don’t know why it took so long to see you, and how great you are, and how much I’m attracted to you.”

  She raised her eyebrows, remembering his barely controlled gaze at lunchtime.

  “Fine. So I knew I was attracted to you from the first time I met you,” he said, “but I didn’t want to admit it. I’m not used to things I can’t control.”

  “But now you want to pursue this,” she said, waving her hand between the two of them. “Even though I am not something you can control.”

  “I don’t want to control you—”

  “Just my business.”

  “No! Dammit, Mona!” He stepped back and she immediately regretted pushing him. But there was something inside her, some instinct, that told her to push. She had good instincts. So she pushed.

  He took a deep breath and looked back up at her, but he didn’t step back into her space. She was pretty mad at her instincts for that, because the thought of him leaving did not-very-fun things to her insides. Even if he was being an ass.

  “No. I just . . . I was blind to my attraction to you, and now, I don’t know, the shades have been lifted.”

  Oh, metaphors. That was kind of like poetry. Probably the most poetry she would get from an accountant.

  He looked into her eyes again, and damn those deep blue pools of feeling, where she could read every struggle, every desire. She didn’t need poetry if he was going to give her looks like that.

  “It was just the apple cake.” She had to brush his seriousness off. Her instincts told her to laugh, that if she took this too seriously, there would be trouble.

  “The apple cake was amazing, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the apple cake. I thought it might be the full moon, but I don’t think that’s it, either.”

  “No?” Everyone blamed everything on the full moon. Mona wanted to blame this on the full moon. Otherwise how could she explain the step she took toward him, ignoring those treacherous instincts? How else could she explain the hand she put on his chest, or the one that snaked around his neck? Or the fact that when she pressed into him, his hands went around her waist and she took that as encouragement to press a little harder?

  It had to be the full moon.

  “It’s not the full moon. It’s you,” Dan said, just a second before his lips descended to hers and she kicked at her instincts, told them to leave her the hell alone because this, this felt so good that how could it be anything other than what she really wanted?

  Six

  This was what he wanted. That was Dan’s last thought as he closed the distance between his mouth and Mona’s, felt her go soft under him. He forgot all about how, a few seconds ago, he was thinking he should probably just go, or at least tell his erection that it wasn’t going to happen because Mona just wanted to pick a fight. But then she started talking about the full moon and apple cake and the fight seemed to go out of her. He should step back, let her work through her feelings. But then she took an infinitesimal step toward him, he felt it, and he decided he could help her work through her feelings.

  With his mouth.

  And his tongue. She seemed to like it. She breathed a heavy sigh and opened to him, her body melting into his, and he just held on and let her melt.

  But he wasn’t letting her get away.

  Well, if she really wanted to, he would.

  But she was pressing up against him in a way that suggested she probably didn’t want to, and her pressing made it harder for him to imagine being able to let her go, so he held on. And then he realized how much he was thinking. Dammit, this was not a time for thinking! This was a time for kissing. So he cupped her face in his hands and angled his head and took her mouth even deeper. God, she was sweet, and she was squeezing the life out of his shirt. He felt her lift the edge and he gasped a little at the feeling of her warm hands on his back. She moaned, and he ran his hands down her body, feeling the muscles in her back flex.

  Those little sounds and the moving into him, all of that made him think she was thinking what he was thinking, which was that this was meant to be and it was meant to be tonight. He was sure, for himself, anyway. But even though he felt good about his powers of persuasion, he had to be sure she was sure. If for no other reason than to get his brain to stop with these ridiculous twisty thoughts so he could get to the lovin’.

  He pulled back and she squeezed him harder, her mouth following his, not letting go. But he persevered because he had to be sure.

  He lifted his head back to where that delicious mouth couldn’t reach his. He cupped the sides of her neck and rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks until she opened her eyes.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Hell yes, she was sure. She hadn’t been sure before, but now she was. But maybe she was just physically sure? Because, physically, Dan felt pretty amazing. Beyond that, he felt a little scary, too. Looking into those blue, blue eyes forced her to admit that all of the arguing and suggestions of nefarious ulterior motives were just a way for her to keep a little safe distance.

  She probably wouldn’t tell him that.

  She had to protect her heart. Dan was so all in, like he wasn’t even thinking about what would happen if they woke up in the morning and the magic wore off and he couldn’t stand to look at her again.

  She reached up and stroked the side of his face, let her hand curl gently into the neck of the pink T-shirt. She wanted him, badly. But she wasn’t sure.

  “Here,” he said, disentangling himself from her and heading over to the counter with the pizza. “Do you have plates?”

  How could he just turn it off like that, she thought, practically panting against the counter. Then he turned around and she saw the tremendous tent his khakis were making under the pink shirt, and she had to laugh. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. Then tears were streaming down her face and she was hiccupping, and the more she tried to stop the hysteria from pouring out of her, the faster it came. She was exhausted, she was confused, and here was this guy who seemed way too good to be true. It was like her curse. Sometimes it was a gift, and sometimes it was like a smack with a wet fish.

  We
t fish? Oh God, even her inner monologue was losing it.

  Then suddenly tented-Khaki Dan was in front of her, his hands strong in hers, coaxing her head upward with soothing sounds. How did he have it in him to make those soothing sounds? This man was perfect! He must not be real. That set her off again.

  She leaned into him.

  He was hard and solid and, well, hard, and she held on. Holding on to him felt good. It gave her strength.

  He handed her a paper towel.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, turning away to blow her nose.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “You have no idea.” She was tired. Tired of baking, tired of this crazy rush during the full moon that left her drained. Tired of keeping her distance from people, especially man-people, because she didn’t think they’d accept the truth about her curse.

  But there was a part of her that wasn’t tired. The part of her that was drawn to Dan was bouncing off the walls of her chest. And everything that he said—whether it was completely the wrong thing or perfectly right, and he did a fair amount of both—made her bounce even harder. He stood in front of her, hair disheveled, lips wet, cheeks flushed, and she was sure she had never felt so attracted to a man in her life.

  “Let’s just eat, and then . . .” Dan reached around her for the plates.

  “I don’t want pizza, Dan.” She put her hand on his arm to stop him.

  “Oh! OK, do you want something else? I can go out and get anything—”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “To eat.”

  He blinked at her. Then he stepped forward.

  Smart man.

  Seven

  Dan didn’t believe in luck or fate or any of that karmic mumbo jumbo that people used to explain how unusual things happened to them.