Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  Call me conceited, but with my ego still stinging from her underhanded comment, it demanded I rectify that situation first.

  When Harlow attempts to fire back a remark, I press my finger against her lips. If I don’t say this now, I’ll never say it. “Two, I’ve got secrets, Harlow. Big ones. I need you to know that. And I need you to be okay with it. They may never get shared—ever. Can you live with that?”

  I take in three deep breaths before removing my finger from Harlow’s mouth. I’ve never thrown myself out there like this before, so I’m not entirely sure what to expect next. I’m hoping my honesty is a step in the right direction, but I’m praying it won’t open floodgates I don’t want opened just yet. When you are hiding secrets as massive as mine, you need months of ground work to soften the blow, not a paltry few days.

  Just when I think Harlow is never going to speak, she answers me in a way I never saw coming. Her lips crash into mine. The electricity surging through my mouth keeps any worries I might have on the downlow.

  I balk for barely a second before parting my lips to accept her kiss. Words aren’t needed when she expresses herself in our embrace. Her anger, her hurt, her desires. They’re all conveyed by the strokes of her tongue and the gentle movements of her lips.

  I hold her face while returning her kiss with the same intensity. Everything I’ve wanted to tell her the past five weeks is said without words. I kiss her as if telling her and the horde of people passing us that she belongs to me. It isn’t for show. For the first time in years, I’m being the most honest I’ve ever been.

  I don’t know how long we kiss for before Harlow pulls away. It is long enough the turmoil knotting my gut the past five weeks has completely unraveled, but not long enough for me to get my fill of her scrumptious mouth.

  Harlow’s lusty eyes dance between mine as our lungs strive for air. Her lipstick-smeared mouth and wide eyes make her even more beautiful. I like this look on her. Lost, yet found.

  “Did you feel it?” she asks, her tone too low for my liking. “Because if you don’t feel that same senseless, out of this world sensation I’m feeling, walk away. Run if you must. But don’t drag me alongside you. You can’t fear losing something you don’t have, but I’m already shit-scared of losing you. That’s not fair, Cormack. You’re not playing fair.”

  Her confession is a hit to my ego, but it is one I can accept. I walked away from her last month only to demand she not walk away from me tonight. “I’m not trying to play you, Harlow. I just don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

  “Not all mistakes end badly. Look at my date with Matthew. That ended quite fittingly. Well, for me, anyway.”

  Just hearing Matthew’s name should have jealousy rearing its ugly head, but the underlying message in her comment keeps it at bay. She’s not referring to the $200 bottle of wine she’s grasping in her hand. She means our kiss.

  “I could hurt you.”

  I expect my confession to knock the wind from her lungs, but it doesn’t. She’s so confident I won’t hurt her, she won’t even look into the possibility of it occurring.

  “And my secrets? Can you push them aside as easily?”

  I take a step back when she asks, “Did you kill a dog?”

  “What?” Disbelief resonates in my tone.

  The grin curving her lips makes me want to forget our entire conversation. “I’ve read every possible scenario you can imagine when it comes to relationships. The only time things ended badly was when a dog was killed. As long as you’ve never killed a dog, I can wait for your secrets to be revealed the old fashioned way.” Her beautiful breasts heave up and down as she struggles to hold in her giggle.

  I kiss her again. It is either kiss or confess to my sins, so I go for the more pleasurable option.

  “Kissing isn’t the answer to everything,” Harlow murmurs against my mouth, her tone revealing she is full of shit. If she had the means, she’d kiss her way to world peace.

  When she slides her tongue along mine, I tug her closer, craving even more of her taste. She obliges with a needy groan, her chest flattening against mine as our tongues continue their arousing duel. The little sounds she is making blur my mind, instigating more recklessness.

  I drop my lips to her earlobe. “I can promise you I’ve never killed a dog, but I can’t guarantee you’ll want to kiss me when you learn all the things I’ve done.”

  “The journey of discovery is half the fun, Cormack. Stop stealing the thunder before the clouds have even formed.”

  Preventing my retort that the storm developed years ago, she returns her mouth to mine and kisses the living hell out of me. The tenderness of her kiss reveals her wish for me to be free from the burden I don’t deserve to carry. It is a kiss that feels like more than a kiss. It strips the chaos from my heart and lifts the negative thoughts from my mind. This is corny as fuck, but it is like we are making love with our mouths.

  When Harlow breaks our kiss, I can think clearly again, but I’m so caught up in her unspoken promises, I’m feeling spontaneous.

  “Have dinner with me?” I place a peppering of kisses across her temple and down her cheek. Her skin prickles with excitement when my lips cherish the curve of her jaw before lowering to suckle on her delicate neck. “I’ll cook for you. Show you my mad culinary skills.” A rare spark of confidence breaks through when I say, “They’re not as stellar as my kissing skills, but I promise I won’t poison you.”

  “You want to cook for me?” The utter shock in her tone has me pulling back.

  I study her carefully, ensuring it isn’t a bad shock crossing her gorgeous features. Confident it isn’t, I nod. The vein in her neck does a weird thud-thud, stop, thud-thud thing as she gasps in a sharp breath.

  “Why?”

  I shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. It is a big deal—a fucking huge one. I’ve never invited anyone to my home before, but extending an invitation to Harlow seems as natural as my lungs breathing air.

  Grasping a non-verbal reply isn’t cutting the mustard, I stammer out, “As a form of an apology. To show you I mean no harm.”

  Even with worry returning to her eyes, Harlow murmurs, “When?”

  Before my brain can conjure a single objection, I say, “Tonight.”

  Harlow strives to maintain her fighting spirit. She ignores the vulnerability in my eyes that reveals I’m merely a man, proving nothing will scare her away. Her heart gave up the fight of pretending it couldn’t feel the insane pull between us the instant she laid her eyes on me. How do I know this? My heart did the exact same thing.

  “It’s Sunday.” I hear surrender in her short reply.

  I angle my head to the side and quirk my lips. “Do you not eat on Sundays?”

  Her smirk reveals if her stomach wasn’t plastered to mine, she’d whack me in the gut. I’m tempted to kiss her again. It isn’t to wipe the toothy grin off her face, but to stop me from falling to her feet and begging for her scraps. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but all the defenses I use to keep myself out of situations like this are null and void around her.

  “Have dinner with me?” I drop my eyes to her level before whispering, “Please.”

  My plea seals the deal. As a fire ignites in her eyes, she nods. She isn’t giving me instant forgiveness; she’s merely giving me the ability to grovel more readily.

  Happy to take up the task, I curl my hand over hers and guide us out of the alleyway. I’ve made too many mistakes to dwell on the nerves taking flight in my stomach, and I’m truly looking forward to having the chance to rectify them.

  “Hold on.” She hops from foot to foot to slip on her heels before her hand darts up to wipe smears of lipstick from my mouth. “I’d hate for people to get the wrong idea.”

  I yank away from her. “If wearing your lipstick tells men like Matthew you’re off the market, I’ll wear it with pride.”

  Harlow freezes, more in awe than alarm. I can understand her stunned stance. Every revelation I’ve expo
sed tonight was delivered with a massive bout of shock. I hate the way she defuses me so quickly, but after so much time without surprise, it’s stupidly addictive. I like shocking her nearly as much as I enjoy kissing her.

  Harlow’s frozen stance comes with an advantage. It allows me to see my Bentley rounding the corner. With a wave of my arm, I signal for Augustus to pull in front of us. Here it comes, an event I never anticipated, but am secretly looking forward to. For the first time in years, I’m going to listen to my heart instead of my head.

  Chapter Eight

  Cormack

  “Thank you.” Harlow’s praise is weakened by the roll of her eyes. I’ll be sure to add her dislike of having doors opened for her to the long list of things I like about her.

  I’ve heard of instalove, lust, and every other snap-your-fingers fascination people throw around these days, but I’m not convinced any of those explain my attraction to Harlow. I honestly don’t know what attribute of hers I admire the most. She is gorgeous, but her beauty goes much deeper than the surface of her skin. She doesn’t see how perfect she is, how she’s worthy of a man better than me.

  If I was forced to pick just one of her qualities, I’d have to say it is her determination. My company pulled every ratty trick it could perform on her the past nine months, yet her fighting spirit remains strong. That’s inspirational—nothing more, nothing less.

  My jog slows when the back passenger door suddenly pops open. “Please, allow me,” Harlow says with a grin, returning the old-fashioned gesture with an edge only someone with her confidence could pull off.

  I slip into my seat before shifting my eyes to Harlow. “Would you like to close it too?”

  Always up for a challenge, she leans across my body to slam my door shut. I do my best to ignore the stiff peaks of her nipples stabbing my arm. My acting skills are poor, to say the least.

  “Would you like me to put on your seatbelt as well?” Her lips are so close to my neck, her hot breath makes my nape bead with condensation.

  When she returns to her side of the bench seat, the most evil grin crosses her face. “Don’t pout; you’re not a baby.”

  I’m not pouting; I’m just fighting with all my might not to kiss her again without first seeking permission. Tonight was the second time I’ve pounced on her without consent. I wouldn’t say I’m a stiff when it comes to rules, but for matters like this, I’m as straight as a board.

  “Harlow—”

  “No.”

  I glare at her, certain I heard her wrong. I rehearsed my question in my head, but I didn’t vocalize it. “I only said your name; how could you possibly know I was going to ask a question?”

  She runs her index finger down my infuriatingly bloomed cheek before trailing it across my twitching mouth, doubling the discomfort in my pants. “You want to kiss me.” She isn’t seeking confirmation; she is stating a fact. “And although I really want you to kiss me, I’m not going to let you.”

  Now I’m pouting. “Why?”

  She smiles, loving the devastation in my tone. “Because that’s not the way groveling works. You left me hanging for over a month. I might not need to know all your secrets just yet, but that doesn’t mean you’re off scot free, Mr. McGregor.”

  My teeth grit over her referring to me by my surname, but I grin and bear it, finally recognizing that an invitation to dinner isn’t close to repairing the damage I caused to her life the past month, let alone the prior nine.

  “I understand.” My voice is deeper than normal, more tense. I’ve had some of my best ideas when my lips are attached to hers, so I’m worried now that they’ve been taken off the table. “Perhaps after you’ve sampled my beef wellington you’ll change your mind?”

  Harlow pulls a face like she vomited in her mouth. It makes me smile while also alleviating the tautness across my chest.

  “Have you ever tried beef wellington?”

  I’m not a fan of the mustardy dish either, but it takes three hours to prepare, meaning I’m guaranteed to have Harlow in my presence for a minimum of three hours tonight. It was three hours I didn’t know I wanted thirty minutes ago, but three hours I plan to cherish.

  Harlow shakes her head. “No. I am a born and raised Ravenshoe local who’s barely left the state.”

  “You have to go to England at least once in your life. The countryside is beautiful.”

  Not quite as captivating as her, but I keep that praise to myself. I already had my wish to kiss her shot down, imagine the dent my ego would sustain if I exposed all the wicked thoughts streaming through my head?

  The remainder of our trip is made in silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it is uncomfortable. I would have preferred we banter like last month, but I’d rather silence than stumble out something I might regret. I have to feed her before announcing my plans for her bakery, as she’ll be less likely to murder me with a belly full of filet mignon and pastry. I hope.

  My steady heart rate breaks into a canter when my Bentley glides down the cobbled driveway of my home. Out of all the properties I have amassed the past three years, this one is my favorite. It is flashy, but in a modest way. With no desire for guests, the three-bedroom, two-bath design made it a perfect bachelor pad. There is a studio apartment hidden behind a dense layer of trees for my staff, and the main residence is surrounded by an acre of turf. It isn’t a castle, but it is my home.

  When Augustus comes to a stop at the front of the stone stairs, I clamber out and wait for Harlow to join me on the sidewalk. Not opening her door seems like a dick move, but her pleasing grin at my quick learning abilities makes it worthwhile.

  Augustus dips his chin in farewell before driving my car toward the garage. I don’t need to advise him to stay close. He is married to my housekeeper, so he won’t stray far.

  “This place is really nice.”

  Harlow’s voice dips when I place my hand on the curve of her back to guide her to the main entrance. She isn’t the only one nervous. My stomach is so jittery, I feel like I’m moments away from barfing. What I said earlier was gospel. I’ve never invited anyone to my home before. This is so far out of my comfort zone, it is either a brilliant move on my behalf or an extremely stupid one.

  “There is a waterfall not too far from here. Have you been before?” Harlow asks, nudging her head north.

  “No,” I reply with a shake of my head. “I’ve only resided here a few months. I’m still learning the land.”

  The butterflies fluttering in my stomach ease when she scrubs her heels on the bristled mat at the door as if they’re covered with mud. She’s putting on a good show of acting calm, but there is no doubt she is nervously excited. Her addictive energy is contagious.

  “Oh wow,” Harlow purrs in a dramatic moan as her eyes absorb the stone fireplace and reclaimed timber floors of my living room. Although the space is generous, the wood and stone gives it a homey feel.

  “Is that. . .” Her heels click across the wooden floors as frantically as my heart smashes against my ribs. For a woman who seems unfazed by wealth, she is quick to spot the first costly feature of my home: an original Mark Rothko painting hanging above the fireplace.

  I’m forced to eat my inaccurate assumption when Harlow says, “Oh my god, look at you.” She snatches a decade old Halloween photo off the mantel before pivoting around to face me. “Is this your brother?” Her eyes go crazy as she takes in the photo as if it is more valuable than a Mark Rothko original. “You were right; he does look like you. . . just ten times sexier.”

  “Hey!”

  I snatch the photo out of her hand, acting hurt, but it’s all a ploy. Colby and I are nearly identical; he is just seven years younger than me, so if she thinks he’s sexy, that means she also believes I’m sexy. My chest puffs high. With my ego still suffering the sting of her earlier slap, it needed that praise.

  “It’s the outfit. The girls always go gaga for the villain.”

  I place the picture of me in a Superman suit and Colby dressed as The
Joker back onto the mantel before gathering another. “These are my sisters, Clara and Cate.” This photo isn’t as dated as the earlier one. It was snapped July Fourth last year.

  “Wow,” Harlow murmurs in a long drawl. “None of you missed out in the looks department, did you? How old are they? Cate looks very young.”

  “She was eighteen in that picture. She is nineteen now, and a real handful.”

  Harlow giggles at my dramatic description of my sister’s bratty ways. I doubt she’ll be laughing when they meet in person. Cate is the size of a fairy, but as wild as a lumberjack.

  “Clara is twenty-four.”

  I try to think of something nice to say about Clara, but I’m left stumped. Colby, Cate and I took on our mother’s personality. Clara followed our father’s traits. They are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum.

  Harlow takes a few seconds to inspect the photo with due diligence before returning it to its place on the mantel. “Are there any photos of your mom and dad?”

  “Ah. . .” I scan my eyes down the dozen or more photos nestled on the shelf until I find the one of my mom taken a few years ago. It was snapped just before she was placed in an assisted living facility. “This is my mom.”

  When Harlow attempts to remove the frame from my grasp, it takes my brain screaming at my hand three times before I relinquish it from my grip. I don’t have many photos of my mom, so I treasure every one I have.

  Harlow’s eyes gloss over with sheen when she praises, “Now the blond-haired, blue-eyed genes makes sense. She’s beautiful, Cormack.”

  “She was,” I correct, my voice croaky.

  Not wanting Harlow to see the hurt in my eyes, I remove the frame from her hand and guide her into my kitchen. Because the floorspace of my home comprises only a fraction of the mansions I grew up in, it doesn’t take us long to reach my country-style kitchen.

  Harlow’s raring pulse has barely dropped by the time I ask if she’d like a glass of wine.