by Shandi Boyes
I try to return his silent mock with an equal amount of grit, but I’ve never been good at lengthy bouts of silence. “I don’t know why you’re smiling. It’s not funny. I’ve been up since 3 AM. I’m tired.”
I wanted my reply to amplify the friskiness in the air, but my honesty has the opposite effect. I’m so tired, if the savage surge of electricity bouncing between us wasn’t increasing my energy levels, I’d be on the verge of collapse.
My knees wobble when Cormack twangs my bottom lip. “Don’t pout. You’re not a baby.”
“It takes one to know one,” I fire back before I can stop myself.
It wasn’t very mature, but when you catch me with minimal sleep, you’re destined to recognize my morbid dislike of mellowness.
Cormack’s lips twitch as he attempts to stifle his reply. His pause is pointless when he snickers, “I know you are, I said you are, but what am I?”
My lips move, but not a syllable escapes my mouth. He just stole my line. “Well. . . ah. . . shit. . .”
Out of words—and clearly oxygen—I switch our verbal tussle to a physical one.
Cormack takes a step back when my fist lands in his stomach. My hit is barely a fairy tap, but firm enough for both of us to gasp in sharp breaths. I don’t know why he is wheezing, but I obviously can’t take it back. I just acted before thinking.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.” My voice relays my utter shock. I’m drowning in a cesspool of financial burden; I don’t need a lawsuit to take away the half dozen pennies I earned last month.
I worry that Cormack’s wealth wasn’t acquired via hard work when he scans my bakery. If he’s calculating my assets, he shouldn’t waste his time. The chairs and tables nestled around the space are Ikea knockoffs because even flat-packed furniture is out of my league. The paintings gracing the walls are prints I doctored to look authentic, and my kitchen is older than me. Second only to Cormack, the highest thing of value standing in this bakery is me, and even then, you’re not getting much bang for your buck.
When Cormack returns his eyes to mine, the mischievous gleam brightening them divulges he isn’t litigious. He’s simply seeking a way to return my tease. How do I know this? The sting of my bra strap snapping my olive skin proves he was calculating nothing but revenge.
My jaw drops as my overworked brain struggles for an appropriate response. He just snapped my bra strap—a man whose suit alone could feed me for a year snapped my bra strap. What universe am I in and how did I get here?
Instead of taking a moment to consider all my options, I respond to Cormack’s tease with an equal amount of immaturity. With a poke of my tongue, I stomp on his foot, spin on my heels, then dart for the kitchen. I should be screaming in alarm, alerting anyone in the vicinity that the Straight-Suited-Stalker who terrorized the residents of Ravenshoe in the late nineties has resurrected from his grave. But instead of hollering at the top of my lungs, I’m giggling like a juvenile twit.
My response can’t be helped. The butterflies in my stomach already have me overwhelmed with giddiness, and don’t even get me started on Cormack’s bellowing laugh. He is loving this step back in time as much as I am. I can’t remember the last time I acted so carefree, let alone freely frolicked with a man I just met. I wouldn’t necessarily say dating sucks, but by the time I’ve spent hours primping my body to within an inch of recognition, I barely have the strength to leave my loft, let alone play nice.
When I enter my kitchen, I snag two eggs in my hand and pivot on my heels to face Cormack. I have no clue what I plan to do with the eggs, but with my brain on the fritz, I’m listening to my fun-loving heart instead of its more mature, rational counterpart.
Cormack stops dead in his tracks. “Hey, whoa, hold on a minute.” He raises his hands in the air like I’m grasping pistols instead of two lousy eggs. “We’ve only just met, but I’m fairly certain you’re not a lady who does anything she’ll regret in the morning.”
I twist my lips, equally adoring and loathing the mirth in his tone. “Who says I’ll regret it?” The sexual innuendo teeming between us can’t be missed. It is so intense, I’m certain the eggs I’m clutching are now hard-boiled. “One stupid mistake can change everything, but who says all mistakes end badly?”
The air sizzles with sexual tension when Cormack steps toward me, the crackling of energy between us making him seem closer than he is. “Think about this, Harlow. For every action there is an equal reaction.”
“Yeah, it’s called retaliation.” I give him a sassy wink.
When his eyes brighten with defiance, I raise an egg high into the air, wordlessly warning him to stand down. He angles his head to the side before furling his lips. He isn’t berating me; he is merely authenticating my threat. I maintain my strong stance, even though his heated gaze makes me want to squirm. I don’t back down when challenged.
With the smirk of a man who has nothing to lose, Cormack takes another step toward me. His prowling stops midstride when I peg an egg at a tile mere inches in front of his feet. It cracks on impact, splashing his expensive shoes with clear goop and bright yellow yolk.
Pretending I can’t feel my heart jolting in my throat, I return my eyes to Cormack. He is staring at me in shock, and if I’m not mistaken, a smidge of awe. I accepted his challenge, wrapped a shiny red bow around it and served it straight back to him. He’s probably used to high-class, six months to make a decision women. I’m a baker and a Libra. I think quick, respond even quicker, and dive into the shallow end without a second thought. My life is sweet, but my wittiness is even sweeter.
Some may say too much sweetness will leave a sour taste in your mouth. That isn’t the case with me. You’re only here for a lifetime, so I plan to make the most of it. If you want to join the crazy-ass ride, you are more than welcome—the more, the merrier. But if you want a smooth, boring track without a single curve or dip in the road, you’re associating with the wrong woman.
This is Cormack’s introduction to my craziness. I’m expecting him to run for the exit without so much of a backward glance. Will I be disappointed when he flees? Yeah, I will be. Will I mourn his loss? Yes, just as much as I did my libido when it packed up and left town. But I played the game as stipulated in the rule book we call life, and I still came out a loser. That’s why I turned a page five years ago.
Against the advice of family, friends, and anyone who has ever known me, I threw every penny I had into my business. Up until eight months ago, it was paying dividends. I was happy. I am happy. I’m just trying to find my work/life balance again since this recent decline in sales. Once I do that, things will once again be golden.
Cormack coughs, alerting me to his presence while also dragging me from my thoughts. I was so sure he would have fled by now, I stare at him with wide eyes. My frozen stance only lasts mere seconds, but it feels like hours.
“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, Harlow,” he mutters, reading 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 again
st 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.” Cormack’s 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 are 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 am still wrapped up in his embrace, my fall is just as spectacular. I’m narrowly saved from landing on the rigid ground by Cormack’s 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 is 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 am 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 is 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.
Cormack 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 is 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. Okay, 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 is 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 is 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 co
nfusion?
“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?” My voice is as high as my brows. If I didn’t need my hands to keep upright, I’d slap my face. I must be dreaming. Surely.
“Yes,” Cormack replies without delay, leaning 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. But I’m not hungry for food. 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.
Chapter Two
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.