by Maggie Wells
Dark eyebrows rose. He found himself gazing at the thin silver hoop in fascination. As if she were aware of his wandering attention, she tapped her fingernails on the top of the glass case. They were trimmed close and polished a purple so dark it was almost black. Her whole look should have been masculine, or at least somewhat gothic, but the look didn’t come across as dark and dangerous on Georgianna Walters. No, for some reason she came across more like a rebellious fairy than some kind of badass.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a batch of bungholes ready to go in the deep fryer.”
Mike jerked as if a bullet ripped through him. “I’m sorry, a batch of what?”
She rolled her eyes, but the playful up-tilt of her lips told him she was getting a charge out of shocking him. “Bungholes. Chocolate doughnut holes.”
He shot her an incredulous stare. “You don’t really call them bungholes, do you?”
She gave a pert nod. “Yep.”
“And people buy them?”
“All the time.” She touched the tip of her pink tongue to her upper lip as if giving the question due consideration. She raised one eyebrow in challenge. “I add a dollop of fudge sauce to the center. I’m telling you, people love to tongue my bungholes.”
Mike tried to conjure an appropriate response to the assertion, but thinking was damn near impossible when his lungs had ceased to function and every drop of blood in his body was rushing to his groin with the force of a tidal wave.
This time the curve of her lips was sly. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop messing with you.”
“No, I, uh…” But he couldn’t get anything more out. Not when his mind was flooded with images of her messing with him in every way possible.
“I can’t help myself sometimes. Guys get so funny when they come in here.”
Running his hand through his hair, Mike conceded the point with a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m sure they do. Weird seeing all this out here, you know, like this. On display.”
Georgianna nodded sagely. “And in such quantity.”
“And we won’t even discuss the quality.”
The beringed brow rose again. “By quality I assume you mean my culinary skills.”
Seeing no way out of the hole he dug himself, Mike decided the best course of action was to simply agree. With everything. “Yes. Definitely. Great cookie.”
This time she threw her head back and let the laugh fly. “Wow. You are really uncomfortable.”
“I’ll get over it.” Determined to get down to business, Mike set the portfolio on the counter top. “I’m Mike Simmons from Trident Security. You met my business partner Colm last week. I’m delivering the proposal for your new security measures.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! I’m so sorry.” She stretched a hand across the counter. “I’m Georgie Walters.”
“Figured as much.” He gave her a sheepish smile as he shook her hand. “I’m not usually so…” He paused, searching for the word. “Awkward.” He tapped the cover of the portfolio. “I knew what to expect when I walked in here.”
“Yeah, but seeing the array live and in person is a tad overwhelming,” she conceded.
Straightening his shoulders, he looked her straight in the eye. “Let me start again?”
Georgie nodded. “Go for it.”
Compelled by her direct manner, he did. Lifting the portfolio from the counter, he backed away a step and approached again, extending the folder to her. “Hello, I’m Michael Simmons with Trident Security, and I’m here to talk to you about the proposal you discussed with my associate.”
She shook back her brightly colored hair, clasped his hand in hers, and gave him a grave nod. “I’m Georgianna Walters, and people keep trying to break in to steal my fresh-baked boobies.”
He blinked in surprise, and she gave him an impish grin.
“Sorry, so hard to resist. There’s nothing I love more than making a grown man blush.”
“I suppose I’ve met your quota for the day.” Growing impatient, Mike opened the cover of the portfolio and tapped the summary page. “This outlines most everything you discussed with Colm. We will install discreet cameras which will run on a circuitous loop digitally recording to an off-site server. You can either pay to have the footage monitored, or view it yourself as you see fit.” He flipped to the next page. “We’ll upgrade your alarm system—what you have now is pretty outdated—and update your security lighting.” He paused, allowing her time to voice any questions.
Georgie scanned the page, nodding her approval. “Sounds good.”
“Colm mentioned you live in one of the units above?”
The reference to her living arrangement seemed to discomfort her. Georgie pivoted away and began removing the rest of the sugar cookies from their tray and placing them in a small pink bakery box. “Yes, but I haven’t had any trouble up there. I use the second floor for storage. The third floor is my apartment.”
“You lease the entire building?”
“I own the building.”
Mike couldn’t hide his surprise. Real estate prices in this area were skyrocketing. If she owned the entire building, she should certainly have no problem laying out the funds necessary to secure the property. Ownership also solved a lot of potential headaches. Installations were easier when they didn’t have to deal with landlords and management companies.
“Oh, well, even better.”
She lifted her head, a wary gleam in her eyes. “Better?”
Perplexed by her sudden change in demeanor, Mike rushed to explain. “Makes getting things done easier. We don’t have to mess with getting a landlord’s permission to install hardware, rewire as needed, those sorts of things. You can ignore the timeline in there. I’ll rework the proposal to reflect we’d be working directly with the owner.”
He wondered how Colm could have missed such an important detail. Then again, the day he’d come out to talk to Ms. Walters, Colm had been wrestling with relationship issues. Looking back on how distracted his friend had been, Mike decided he ought to be happy Colm had come away with the client’s name and address, much less the pertinents.
“Well, either way, I would recommend extending the alarm system to cover your residential and storage areas.”
“You’re afraid someone is going to break in looking for my stash of fondant?”
Her flippant attitude toward her own safety set him on edge. “Look, you have a business that invites mischief. Some may not be entirely harmless.”
“Invites mischief,” she repeated in a mocking tone, but she didn’t look at him.
He couldn’t help but stare at the play of toned muscle in her upper arms and shoulders as she folded and secured the lid of the box with jerky movements. Her hair swung forward, and he saw another tattoo. This one a cupcake. A tiny, artfully rendered cupcake inked into the creamy skin of her nape. Mike flattened his hands on the glass case. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to hold back, or thinking about jumping over the counter.
All he knew was he wanted to take a bite out of the whimsical cupcake so badly his mouth watered.
* * * *
Georgie focused all her energies on closing the box of sugar cookies. She had no idea what made her start mixing the dough for her grandmother’s recipe, but when the urge struck, she went with the flow. When Mike Simmons walked through her door, everything became clear. These cookies—these plain-Jane, most traditional of all cookies—were for this man. This buttoned-up, blushing guy who looked to be about as vanilla as they came.
All she knew was when she saw him, a voice inside her said, “Oh, good. Here you are,” as if she should have been expecting him all along.
He smiled and stammered and stumbled so much, she had to keep from rushing around the counter and covering his ears with her hands. Given his reaction to her business, covering his eyes might have been more helpful to him, but
the urge to touch him wasn’t about his need. This impulse to soothe and stroke was all about her. Lord, the man was appealing when he was agitated. The temptation to keep stirring him into a froth made her heart hammer.
The tips of his ears glowed. And they were such a vibrant pink, she was dying to know if they gave off heat. The painful-looking blush splotching his neck was such a contrast to the rest of him. She wanted to ease his discomfiture.
Georgie fought back the impulse to touch, but she took her own sweet time looking. His hair was a gorgeous brown-blond mixture she’d wager swung either way depending on the season. She supposed most women would call the color dishwater blond and streak it with expensive highlights, but on this man there was no additional gilding needed. The overhead lights bounced off the slippery-shiny waves like sunshine on water. His eyes were cool and sharp, taking every detail in, and on the hunt for anything more he could find. They were an eerily light, clear blue. Like the color used to draw cartoon icebergs.
He wore a shirt so perfectly pressed it had to be fresh from the dry cleaners. His navy blue pants most likely had a matching suit jacket he hadn’t bothered to put on for this call. Georgie gave a thought to being miffed about his casual approach, but dismissed the notion. If he’d come in here trussed in a tie and jacket, the man might have choked on his own embarrassment by now.
She’d known a thousand guys like this Mike Simmons. Hell, her brother could be his twin. But she’d never felt so elementally happy to see someone. Not even Gerald. Her big brother had been her best friend and the bane of her existence for as long as Georgie could remember. And she had no doubt he felt the same way. But the two of them completed each other in an odd way. Their bond defied their parents’ understanding, which made it stronger. Some connections were easy. Others were inexplicable.
Mike Simmons walked through her door and long-scattered puzzle pieces started falling into place.
Pivoting on her heel, she tossed the box onto the counter. “Here you go.”
He jerked as if she’d hurled the cookies at his head. “What?”
“The cookies. They’re for you.”
Her voice was more abrupt than the conversation warranted, but she was having a hard time modulating her tone. Something about this whole encounter was making her circuits go haywire.
“But I didn’t order anything.”
“My treat.”
Georgie snatched the folder from the counter and backed away, clutching the portfolio to her chest, as if the pages of his business proposal might shield her from whatever chaos he was about to inflict on her life.
Tapping her fingers on the cover, she said, “I’ll look this over and let you know what I think.”
A perplexed furrow appeared between his sandy brows. Even his frowns were freaking adorable. Afraid she might attempt to wipe the wrinkle away with a kiss, she backed away another step. The counter top bit into the small of her back. The breath rushed from her lungs with an “Oof!”
Mike Simmons straightened, his reflexes as quick and fluid as a cat’s. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” She whipped the word out like a saber drawn from its sheath. “Fine,” she repeated, then flashed a conciliatory smile. “Oops! I forgot about the bungholes.” Jerking a thumb toward the back room, she tossed off a shrug. “Need to get back to them.”
He reached for his back pocket. “What do I owe you?”
Georgie was so mesmerized by his every move. When she realized he was digging for his wallet, she waved him off. “Oh. No. I meant what I said, my treat.” The poor man had no idea what a treat he actually was. Food for fantasies. Hell, she was already imagining those snazzy suit pants crumpled on her floor.
“I really should pay you for them.”
“They were something I baked for fun.”
He gave her a wan smile. “You’re the potential client. I’m supposed to be wooing you with gifts and such.”
His dry tone startled a laugh out of her. She ran her hand over the faux-leather portfolio. “Yeah, well, you gave me this fancy folder. For all you know, I might have an office supply fetish.”
“Do you?”
“Never met a sticky note I didn’t like.” She wet her parched lips, then forged ahead, feeling more secure with some innuendo close at hand. “You should see me in the marker aisle. They practically have to hose me down to get me out of there.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I see.”
The telltale croak in his voice told her he was seeing her in the marker aisle, and whatever he was picturing was every bit as hot as her wayward thoughts. Needing to put an end to the encounter so she could rein herself in, Georgie offered her hand once more. “Thank you for coming by. I’ll be in touch soon.”
His handshake was warm and firm, his skin not quite as soft as she expected, considering he appeared to be a grade-A paper-pusher. Too much time stirring, chopping, and washing left her own as dry and rough as a deckhand’s. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held tight, twisting her wrist until her fingers unfurled palm-up. Following the direction of his gaze, she found him trying to make out the word inked in scrolling script across the inside of her wrist.
“Rise?”
His inquiring eyebrow coaxed a soft chuckle from her.
“I am a baker.”
Apparently satisfied with her answer, he released her hand and tipped his head toward the box of cookies. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “Enjoy.”
His answering smile held a rakish gleam as he gathered the booty with greedy haste. “Oh, I will.” He shot her a glance from under his lashes. “I may not even share.”
He issued the confession with such relish, she couldn’t help but fall back into her flirtatious ways. “Oh my, a hedonist.”
Darting his gaze from one display to another, he backed away. Color rose in his cheeks again, but he couldn’t help but give Va-Va-Velma a thorough once-over as he moved toward the exit. The bell jingled when he bumped into the door, but he didn’t push through.
Meeting her eyes one last time, he saluted her with the bakery box, treating her to a wide, shockingly boyish grin. “You have no idea, Ms. Walters. No idea at all.”
The bell tinkled its cheerful tune, and he was gone.
Looking down at the proposal in her hand, she then tossed the folder onto the back counter. “Yeah, I bet you’re a real tiger, Mr. Simmons,” she murmured.
Running her hands over the front of her apron, she smiled as she headed for the back room. Her lips were still reaching for the sky when she dropped the first batch of dough into the burbling deep fryer. Recalling those first few stammering seconds with Mike Simmons, her blood ran hotter than the oil in the well. She watched the simmering gold liquid sputter and pop as she let out a soft, “Rawr,” of approval.
Chapter 2
The pink bakery box found a home in the second drawer of Mike’s desk, partially camouflaged by a sheaf of tech specs on a motion detection system. He didn’t expect his partners to rifle through his things, but he wasn’t lying when he told Georgie Walters he didn’t want to share. Not even with his kids. And he liked them a hell of a lot better than he liked Colm, James, or even Rosie.
With a cautious glance toward the door, he slid the drawer open and lifted the lid of the box with one finger. There were only around a dozen left. Mike refused to think too hard about how many there might’ve been to start, because when he went down that road, all he could picture was Georgie and her swing of violet hair. Her cupcake tattoo. The sleek skin of her upper arms. And a baker’s dozen other things he didn’t need to be imagining.
Extracting a cookie, he spun his desk chair away from the door and took a greedy bite. Even two days old, they were every bit as delicious as they’d been fresh out of the oven. Closing his eyes, he sighed and chewed slowly. The rich combination of butt
er, sugar, and her super-duper imported vanilla melted on his tongue, and Mike hummed quietly to himself, no longer immersed in justification. Tyler and Christine were cookie monsters of the first-order, but at five and nearly three, neither of them were exactly picky about the types of cookies they ate.
Colm was in Michigan apple picking with his son and new girlfriend. James had blown through the door saying something about grabbing a file. Mike sat still, listening to his friend open and slam drawers, and mutter under his breath about being late to get his twins from his mother’s house. A client meeting had kept Mike bogged down most of the afternoon, so he’d missed pick-up time. Thankfully, Rosie loved his kids—and him—enough to retrieve them and bring them back to the office before the overtime penalties kicked in. The clock was ticking toward six. If the gods of peace and quiet were on his side, James would grab his file and dash. Mike reveled in the thought of having the office all to himself, and the potential for twenty blessedly silent minutes.
He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring every morsel. Guilt gnawed at his gut, but he knew how to compensate. Scribbling on a sticky pad, he added a box of the pre-shaped sugar cookies to his grocery list. He’d bake them for an after-dinner treat, he decided, pushing his nagging conscience aside as he reached into the bakery box again. Chewing, he made a note to grab one of those bamboo shoots Rosie liked to keep on her desk. If she kept doing him favors, she’d soon have enough to grow her own stand of cane and block them all out.
“Seal the deal on the bakery yet?”
He shoved the second cookie into his mouth, chomped three times, and dry-swallowed, choking down the last of the crumbs with a muffled cough. Apparently, the gods of peace and quiet were not rooting for him this night. Mike ran a hand over his shirtfront as he swung back to his desk. “What?”
“The porn bakery? Did we seal the deal yet?” James asked, lounging in the doorway.