Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“That’s the condition, Mabel,” he says, swallowing roughly as he lets go of my arm.
“But…you’re busy with hockey and your daughter, like Theo said.”
“I know,” he says, voice raw and vulnerable. “And he’s not wrong. But my dream isn’t simply to finance a bakery. If that was my dream, I would have done that already.” He blows out a breath like he’s gearing up to say something hard. “I want to help run one. That’s why I came here today to bake for you. Why I baked for you last night. I want you to see that I can do this. I wanted you to try a bunch of things I made so you’d know I’m not just a guy who can write a check.”
“You do?”
“I really do. I can’t be around every day, of course, with travel, games, and parenting. But when I can, I’d like to try my hand at the mixer. The counter. The oven.” His smile is tinged with anticipation, like he’s the one on the edge of his seat.
“Really?”
“Definitely.” He gestures to the plate of cookies he just baked for me, and the bag full of last night’s proof of his prowess. “Did I convince you?”
I could say I was convinced yesterday, but that’s not why he cleared his schedule to bake for me. “Yes, Corbin. You’re as talented in the kitchen as you are with a hockey stick,” I say, maybe with a playful emphasis on stick.
Tipping his head back, he laughs. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Oh, good. I’ll keep using it.”
“You do that, Mabel.”
“Count on it.”
When his laughter fades all the way, his lips quirk in a grin. “Then I say, if not now, when?”
I beam. This is happening. This is really happening. But just to be sure, I ask, “We’re doing this?”
“We’re doing this.”
I’m giddy, and I kind of can’t believe his one condition was baking for me. I throw my arms around him to celebrate.
He hugs me right back, his strong arms holding me nice and tight for several seconds, then several seconds more. Here, in his embrace, I’m back in time, back in the trailer, imagining the way he backed me against the door and kissed me so thoroughly my knees went weak.
A zing shoots through me, and I really need to get my act together.
I pull away, putting the now-dry measuring cups in the drawer, even though I could do that later. “I think we can get it ready in a month and a half, give or take.”
His brow furrows as he does calendar math. “We’d open soon after Thanksgiving, then?”
“Not a bad time,” I offer. “People are in the mood to eat sweets then.”
“True. Though I’m always in the mood,” he says.
I refuse to let myself read any innuendo into his comment. I just nod and say, “December it is, then,” and move to more clinical topics. “How’s the cat scratch?”
He cranes his neck like he could see the cut on his back if he twisted enough. “Good question.”
He quickly unknots the apron tie from his nape, then lets the bib fall to his waist. He grabs the hem of his Foxes T-shirt then tugs it over his head in that sexy, one-handed way that makes panties drop.
Are mine on the floor? I check. Nope. They didn’t melt off me. Bonus points—I didn’t take them off either.
But still, this man and his shirtlessness are ridiculously hot. And I am here for this level of ridiculous. The view of him is spectacular, all carved muscles and raw strength, scars, and a smattering of dark chest hair.
“What do you think?” he asks, turning around, showing me the scratch.
It’s a red line down his back, but it’s healing. “Looks good,” I say, in the understatement of the century. He looks more than good.
But that’s the problem.
It’s time to face it.
When he turns around, I clear my throat and confront the elephant in the room. “What about that kiss in the trailer?”
He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck, but his brow knits. “You said we’re all good.”
I nod. “Right. So we’re just forgetting it, yes?”
For a second, regret flashes in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to let it go. But then he nods. “We’re adults.”
“And adults kiss and then move on and go into business together,” I say. It feels imperative we put that kiss behind us. And the hug. And the way I swear he was thinking about kissing me against the cupboards while he made the cookies. “Right?”
I’m dying for him to say, No, I can’t forget how much I want to strip you to nothing. But I really don’t want sexual tension simmering between me and my new business partner as we work. I don’t trust myself enough. This attraction burns too hot, but I’ve got to be able to plan with him, bake with him, do business with him without constantly hoping he’ll kiss a stray dollop of batter off the back of my neck.