An elderly couple huddled over a café table, holding hands, their smiles like new lovers. A lusty twinkle beamed in the husband’s gray eyes. Such a cute pair. Would she ever find her Mr. Right?
As suddenly as if he’d been prodded with a pitchfork, the husband released his wife’s hand and surged to his feet.
“God almighty, Peg. It’s him.”
Chelsea fought the urge to spin around. She didn’t have to, not really. The awestruck excitement on the elderly gentleman’s face spoke as loudly as his words. Jake Wilder had decided to pay a visit.
As if by reflex, one hand went to her glasses. Damn. Why hadn’t she bothered to put in her contacts? Her brown tortoiseshell glasses screamed librarian, not siren.
“Good morning, Miss York.” Jake’s raspy drawl coiled liquid heat in her belly.
No choice now but to face him. So, the potion was doing its job. What else would bring him to the shop so early? Guilt twisted her insides, but she shook off the sensation. After what he’d done to Elise, he was only getting what he deserved.
Pivoting on her heel, she donned a talk show host’s smile. “Nice to see you here, Mr. Wilder.” She shot the elderly gent a glance. “I trust you won’t be averse to signing a few autographs.”
His smile would have dazzled the most jaded of the paparazzi. “It’d be my pleasure.” He offered the still-star-struck husband a nod. “I’m surprised people still want it,” he whispered against Chelsea’s ear.
A shiver skittered the length of her spine. She swallowed hard. The effects of a cool morning draft, nothing more. She’d really have to speak to the landlord about caulking around those charming vintage windows.
“Can I tempt you with something sweet?” She pointed to a tray of neatly arranged pastries.
His brows lifted and he looked as if he was holding his tongue. Something corny, no doubt, most likely referencing how sweet she might be.
Thankfully, those cringe-inducing words didn’t come. He smiled, a gentler curve than the wolfish tilt of his mouth the day before. “I can’t resist one of those cinnamon scones.”
“Coffee?”
“Of course. But I’d better skip the sugar today.”
An invisible spear pierced her soul. The Witches’ Council minions had nothing on the torment inflicted by her own conscience. Plastering on a look she hoped resembled serenity, she strolled off to fetch his requests. No sense rushing. The longer she took, the more time he might spend with his fans.
He’d wanted to see her. Time to brush aside her misgivings and put the potion to use. He’d never learn his lesson if she didn’t make him suffer just a bit.
She returned to find Jake had moved one of the too-small-for-his-big-frame metal chairs to the older couple’s table and entered into a rousing discussion of the most recent draft selections. There was nothing false about his smile as he debated the merits of the first-round pick, another quarterback hoping to emerge a champion and not a recruiting regret.
His attention shifted seamlessly to her face. He came to his feet and took a hearty bite of the warm-from-the-oven pastry. “Where’d you learn to bake like this?”
“The recipe is an old family secret.”
“No cooking school?”
“It’s a secret recipe. I can say no more.”
“Of course.” He took a swig of coffee. “I need a few minutes of your time, Miss York. A couple of details need to be worked out.”
Ah, the arrogance of the man, thinking she could simply drop everything and attend to his concerns. She struggled to summon a sense of indignation. After all, she had customers who needed her. Customers who needed…well, they needed coffee. And croissants. And any manner of literary advice.
She couldn’t even convince herself. If only she didn’t feel the excitement of a schoolgirl meeting her boy-band idol.
“I’ll make it quick.” He flashed the elderly couple a grin. “What’d you think, Bob? Can the two of you spare her for a little while?”
“Of course,” the older woman gushed before her husband could get a word out. She offered Chelsea a wink, a cheeky little gesture. “If you want, I’ll take your place, hon.”
Jake caught her elbow, a light yet possessive touch. He’d certainly given this pair something to talk about. “They can survive without you. I need to iron out some logistics.”
The gleam in his eyes spoke more of the logistics of getting her into his bed than clearing his calendar. This was exactly what she’d hoped for—so why did her feet move as leadenly as a prisoner heading off to a torture chamber?
“Two minutes, Mr. Wilder.” She inclined her head to her private office. The customers’ stares seemed to burn into her back as she led Jake to the closet-sized room. “What brings you here so early?”
“I’ve cleared my schedule for next Saturday. I’m yours all day.”
She leaned over her desk and scribbled a few words on the appropriate date on her calendar. “I’ll set your appearance from noon to four. Does that suit you?”
“That’ll work. To be honest, I really just wanted to get you to myself.”
The wolf’s slow smile signaled a warning. Too late. He caught her hand in his and pulled her to him. Close, so close. His clean scent swept over her like a wind-driven squall. She shouldn’t like this. She needed to reject him, not melt into his embrace. But she clung to him as though she were the one who’d been bewitched.
His mouth brushed her lips, as unhurried as his smile. A gentle sweep against her flesh, tantalizing with its sweet promise of far more decadent caresses to come.
He deepened the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, exploring, teasing, coaxing her to part for him. A ribbon of liquid heat curled in her belly. The edge of the desk seemed the only thing supporting her wobbly legs. His hands explored her, cupping her bottom, molding her to his torso. His arousal pressed to her belly, allowing no doubt of his body’s reaction to the delicious contact. Hunger stirred in her core. Hunger for this man. Hunger she couldn’t afford to feel.
One hand skimmed along her hip, possessive, brazen. Fingers curving over her fully clothed breast, he teased her flesh to life. Chelsea stifled a little moan, but a hint of her need broke through. Her nipple pebbled beneath his touch, and then, his skillful fingers released one button, then another, stealing beneath the fabric of her sensible blouse. Gentle, yet searing. Each moment of precious contact more delectable than the last. And still he kissed her, his tongue mating with hers in a subtle, sensual dance. The heat in her belly seeped through her body, and she melted to him. Tilting her hips to cradle the hard ridge of his erection, she spread her legs, welcoming the sweet pressure, craving more. Her hands curved over his biceps, rock hard beneath her fingertips, and she drank in the feel of him, the taste of him, the scent of him.
She wanted more. She wanted his cock deep within her heat, claiming her with primal intensity.
She wanted him.
Regret filled her like a bitter tonic. She couldn’t go through with this. Not now. Not when she wanted him more with each passing moment. She needed to keep him at a distance before she became the one entranced.
Chelsea broke away. Her breaths came like little pants. His dark eyes questioned without words.
He regarded her with a blend of need and wonderment. “Damn, you taste as good as anything you bake.” Jake’s husky drawl skittered a fresh shiver along her spine. His smile broadened to a grin, and an arrogant, icy mask slid into place, concealing the warmth in his eyes. “Darlin’, why have I been wasting my time on beauty queens all these years?”
She blinked. “What…what are you talking about?”
“I’ve wasted so much time on actresses and cheerleaders and beauty queens. It never occurred to me to look for a pretty bookworm.”
“A bookworm.” She squeaked the words through nearly clenched teeth.
“Sexy librarian? Better?”
“You say the word as if it were a synonym for old maid.”
He shrugged. “
Does it matter? I’d probably stock books for a week if it gave me a chance to see you in those glasses. Damn, I love that look.”
“Oh, do you now? As opposed to alluring and beautiful?”
“Ah, don’t be so prickly. You’re a pretty girl and you know it. You think I didn’t notice that hot little red dress you wore yesterday? Not exactly a baker’s uniform.”
The budding flame Jake stirred with his kiss transformed into a more intense heat, altogether unpleasant and fueled by emotions far less tender. She’d expected a lovesick puppy, a man transformed by Bridget’s brew into her adoring love slave. But Jake Wilder was neither lovesick nor adoring. No, if anything, he seemed even more sure of himself, a swaggering wolf in a Greek god’s body.
What had Elise even seen in this arrogant jock?
He reached for her, tracing his fingertip over the arm of her glasses. “Don’t get me wrong. It sure as hell didn’t take a sexy red dress to get my attention. You could’ve draped yourself in a tent and I still would have noticed you.”
Indignation flooded her cheeks. She must be absolutely scarlet. “So, let me understand this, Mr. Wilder.” The jelly in her spine replaced by steel, she pulled herself to her full height and squared her shoulders. “You believe I dressed sexy just to get your attention.” She had, of course, but that was beside the point.
“It sure as hell didn’t hurt your chances of gaining my cooperation. I probably would have agreed even if you hadn’t looked like you did. I wasn’t lying when I said I support the youth in this town. But the opportunity to see you again definitely sweetened the deal.”
Irritation and confusion came together to swarm her thoughts. Could she have imagined the yearning in his kiss? She’d taken his reactions as a response to the potion. Had she confused simple lust for longing?
Her regrets dissolved, she faced him. First things first. There’d be time to sort this out later when she could think of something beyond how delectable his lips felt against her. For now, she had to get rid of him before she ended up on page one of some gossip mag. Her customers would certainly notice a prolonged absence, and she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been followed. After all, a Jake Wilder sighting before noon would provide prime fuel for scandal.
She angled herself away from him. Think straight. The first call she’d make after he left would be to Bridget. Maybe the spellcaster could figure out what was going on.
“Well, now that we’ve got that bit of information on the table, I suppose we can move forward with the logistics. I’ve booked the studio for Tuesday afternoon. I hope that will work for you.”
“Your wish is my command.” The sly leer in his eyes conjured images that had nothing to do with radio promotion. She tore her gaze away, peering down at her neatly laced hands.
“They’ll be expecting you at one. I’ll email your vocal copy to your agent.”
He shook his head. “Not necessary. I’ll be back for it later. Plan on seven o’clock.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I happen to think it’s an excellent idea. Hopefully you’ll be hungry and I’ll be able to convince you to join me for dinner.” The wolf’s smile reappeared. More likely, he intended to have her for dinner.
The confidence in his eyes bolstered Chelsea’s resolve. By Zeus, she’d resisted greater temptations than this overconfident mortal. Creamy slabs of cheesecake. To-die-for brownies. Cranberry scones. Oh, if only witches could eat everything they wanted without gaining weight. Unfortunately, food followed the same calories-in-hips-out formula on a woman with powers that it did with a woman who didn’t share Chelsea’s gifts. She’d developed a will of iron over the years. After all, clunky power-boosters and a side-saddle would wipe out the sleek lines of her broom.
If she could turn away such potent culinary temptations, an arrogant ass of a jock should not prove a problem.
“Very well, Mr. Wilder. I’ll have the copy ready for you this evening. I trust you can find your way out.”
With that, she showed him her back.
“One last thing, Miss York,” he called after her. “Be sure to wear those glasses.”
* * * * *
Chelsea spotted Bridget’s mass of unruly red curls through the shop window before she even had a chance to open the door. Was it her imagination, or had the spellcaster bolted up the stairs as if a pack of rabid Puritans chased her? Surely Bridget didn’t think she could avoid her.
Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous, Chelsea scolded herself. Even if Bridget had botched the potion, there’d be no reason for her friend to scurry off and hide.
A bell as loud as something Quasimodo rang announced Chelsea’s arrival. “Bridget, I need to talk to you.”
Silence met her words.
“Bridget, I need a word with you.” Louder this time. “I saw you rush upstairs. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” The spellcaster seemed to materialize behind her back. No matter how many times Bridget popped up out of nowhere, Chelsea found the experience unnerving. “What’s up?”
Chelsea spun around. “How did you do that?”
“I’m testing my new invisibility potion. The formula works, but its effects are still troubling.”
“I see the spell’s worn off already.”
A glum nod met Chelsea’s observation. “It’s a glitch, no doubt about it. I’m working on it.”
Chelsea wandered to a rack of colorful powders and charms. “Speaking of glitches, I think there might be a problem with the potion you whipped up for me.”
“Problem?” Bridget’s shrug looked innocent, though her eyes betrayed a different truth. “What could possibly be wrong with Love Potion Number Seven?”
“I suspect you already know.”
Another shrug. “Not a clue. How ’bout you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Jake Wilder is what’s wrong.” The words poured from Chelsea’s mouth. “I expected a lovelorn puppy, not a shark. He seems ready to devour me.”
Bridget made a show of arranging some bottles on a shelf. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“You know that’s not what I expected. I’d planned on lovesick, not lusting. And he’s just as cocky as ever. The big oaf actually accused me of trying to attract his attention.”
One ginger brow arched. “Aren’t you?”
“Damn it, Bridget, that’s not the point. He’s every bit as sure of himself as he was before he took the potion. If anything, he’s worse.”
The spellcaster shrugged. “That’s to be expected. The potion didn’t change his personality. It simply made him fall in love with you. He’s still him. He might express it with tender sonnets or lusty midnight romps, but it’s still love.”
Lusty midnight romps. Chelsea gulped a breath. The notion should horrify her. Sadly, it didn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Her lips pursed. She’d expected Bridget to put her mind at ease. But this revelation seemed a prelude to disaster.
“I was prepared for something other than ravenous rake.”
Something I could resist.
Bridget planted her hands on her hips. “You got exactly what you wanted, Chelsea. Jake Wilder is crazy about you. He might not even know it yet, but he is. You have that power over him. What you do with that power is all up to you.”
Chapter Four
Son of a bitch.
Scowling at the face in the mirror, Jake plastered a piece of tissue to the fresh razor cut on his chin. Why was he even bothering to shave? A clean-cut appearance wouldn’t make any difference to Chelsea York. After his performance that morning, he’d be surprised if she even let him in the door.
What the hell had gotten into him? He’d lived up to the tabloids’ portrayal of him, the arrogant wolf on the prowl who existed to get laid. So much for avoiding complications.
Hell, he couldn’t even explain why he’d gone to her shop at the crack of dawn. Four hours sleep, and he’d been wide awake, able to think of nothing but the way that pretty red dress of hers skimmed her hips and
luscious little ass. He’d tried to distract himself with a five-mile run, but the need to see her outweighed every ounce of his better judgment. If he’d had any sense, he would have hit the weight room. Instead, he’d marched into her business and got her to himself.
He’d intended to talk, nothing more. He’d intended to convince himself he’d let his imagination run wild. After all, Chelsea hadn’t played the seductress with him. If anything, she’d been all business, turning down his dinner invitation with a polite but definite no. So why had she looked at him with such guilt in her eyes?
For some reason he couldn’t understand, he didn’t want her to be like the women he’d dated. Scheming, manipulative harpies at worst. Pretty starlets more attracted by his celebrity than to him at best. He wanted Chelsea to see him for who he was, not a number on the back of a jersey.
His intentions had gone straight to hell. Kissing her had been a mistake. Now that he’d tasted her, he wanted more. More of her lips, soft and firm, yet yielding beneath his touch. More of her taste, a blend of cinnamon and sugar and something infinitely more rare. More of her scent, lemon and vanilla and…her.
When he released her, her eyes had gone wide. Her golden-brown irises darkened. Desire. Surprise. And that look of guilt mingled with triumph. She sure as hell didn’t have a poker face. She wore her feelings like most women wore makeup.
He was wise to her tactics. She thought she’d established the rules of the game. Hell, he’d play along. But she’d better be ready for a counterattack. He’d had more than his fair share of experience with gold diggers out to trap a rich jock. He’d wriggled out of snares baited with pretty girls since he became a fixture on sports mags during his senior year. At this point, he doubted he’d ever find a woman who valued him more than his endorsement potential.
Why did it twist his guts in a knot to think his sexy bookworm was just as much a prospector as the rest? Something deep within wanted her to be different. Maybe it was the hometown-girl effect. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at him when he brushed his lips over hers, her sweet, tender expression at that first, barely intimate contact. Maybe he was just damn tired of running defense against scheming women. Why did Chelsea York have to be like all the others?
Love Potion #7 Page 3