Gena Showalter - The Hotter You Burn

“Well...I kind of have a key.” She plucked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, adding, “Is now a bad time to mention I don’t like the repairs you’ve made on the house?”

“You do not have a key. Jase changed the locks our first day here.” The guy was distrustful of strangers. They all were. They’d learned to be.

“Well...he may or may not have left the new keys on the porch while he ran to the backyard to get his tools.”

And she’d just happened to be nearby, watching? And none of them had noticed? “As of tomorrow, your key won’t work.”

A flash of fury in her ocean-blues, quickly extinguished by defeat. She put her chin down and hunched her shoulders, the same pose she’d struck in so many of the pictures. “Yeah. I figured.”

Damn it. His chest began to ache. How many knocks had this girl taken in her young life?

And why did he even care? Yes, her pictures had intrigued him. Yes, she was hot as hell. But devoting so much time and energy to one woman wasn’t his MO.

“If you were hungry, why didn’t you come to the door and ask us for food?”

She went ramrod straight. “I didn’t—I don’t—need your help.”

Ah. Pride. The downfall of so many. He’d once tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone, either, that he was fine on his own. Meanwhile, anytime he’d spotted a happy family, he’d felt as though he were being run over by a car.

“You did—you do—need my help, or you wouldn’t be here.” As she glared at him, he added, “How’d you lose the house, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” she stated flatly.

“You blew through your mother’s insurance money. Got it.” The day of the purchase, the broker had prattled on about the Glass bully losing her mom earlier in the year and refusing to lower herself by getting a job. Beck had only half listened at the time and had regretted it with every fiber of his being since finding the box of photos. Now he tried to dredge up any other information he might have heard without any luck. “What are you, Harlow Glass?”

Her lips pursed, drawing his gaze and holding it hostage. Those lips were better than the pictures had promised. Plump and red, the kind every man fantasized about devouring...and being devoured by. She shifted from foot to foot, more nervous now than when she’d first arrived.

“What do you mean? What am I? What kind of question is that?”

“The legit kind. What do you do for a living? Are you a life coach? Accountant? Underwear model?” He looked her over, careful to avoid the dangerous beauty of her face—but the rest of her proved just as detrimental to his mental health. “Femme fatale?”

“I’m not a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Not like some people I’ve recently met.”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, you,” she said with a nod. “Who else? You’ve never dated the same woman twice. Not since you’ve been here, at least.”

Or ever. “So?” Yes, he slept around. But why not? Sex felt good and for a few hours, he could drown himself in pleasure. No thoughts. No problems. No worries. His version of therapy.

“So. I wasn’t finished. You’ve got a woman in your bedroom right this second, but you’re still out here—” she waved her arm around the kitchen “—flirting with me.”

“This isn’t flirting, sweetheart. This is an interrogation.”

“Ha! An interrogation implies I’m being threatened, but the only part of me currently in any danger is my mouth. You’re staring.”

Was he? “Am I scaring you...or exciting you?”

Her eyes widened. “N-neither.”

A stutter. Adorable. “Let’s find out how you react to actual flirting.” He prowled his way around the counter.

She stepped back, once, twice, and would have again but the stove stopped her retreat. A sense of triumph overtook him as he placed his hands at her sides, caging her. He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose against hers, the heady scent of strawberries and pecans teasing him. “If every guy you’ve ever met hasn’t looked at your lips with animal hunger,” he said, his voice low and husky with need he couldn’t hide, “I’d be shocked.”

She traced her fingertips over the lips in question, the action so inherently sensual, so damned innocent, he would have given anything to corrupt... To steal a taste.

Tit for tat, one dessert for another.

“Prepare to be shocked,” she whispered.

“Foolish men.” Up close, he could see little details the pictures had missed. The curl in her midnight lashes. The smattering of freckles on her nose. The rose-colored flush under her cheeks. “But let’s get to the heart of the matter, honey. You owe me, and not just for the food. For the mental anguish I’ve suffered.”

“Mental anguish,” she echoed.

“That’s right.” He leaned forward the barest inch, drawn by a force he could not control, and his chest brushed against hers.

She inhaled sharply, exhaled fast and shallow, an instinctive action born of awareness, and just like that, he was as rigid as steel.

“A part of me died with that pie,” he said, caressing the side of his nose against hers.

“Died.” Another echo.

“Mmm.” His lips hovered just short of kissing hers, their breaths intermingling, and damn. How was not touching this woman more carnal than getting another naked? “I asked what you are because I need to know how I can devise a sufficient payment. Do you know how painful it is to crave something with every fiber of your being? To want it more than you want water to drink?”

“I do.” She melted into him, all her softness fusing to his aching hardness. “I really, really do.”

How close was she to surrender?

He cut back a curse. The answer didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She wasn’t here for sex, and what she’d said before was true. Another woman waited in his bedroom. While he had the morals of an alley cat, he refused to make out with one female while another waited in his bed. It was a line he never wanted to cross.

Back on track. “That’s how badly I want...the pie.”

Horrified realization dawned, and she pushed him away. A puny action, but he willingly stepped back.

“Thanks for the taste of your flirting,” she said with a sneer, “but as you can see, it left a foul taste in my mouth.”

No. She’d gotten lost in the moment. Hell, he’d gotten lost in the moment.

She opened her mouth, closed it. “Look. I’m sorry I stole your pie. Okay? I guess... Well, I was resentful. You’re living in my house, where I’m supposed to be, and I just... I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Great. I guess I’ll be going now.” She attempted to circle him, but he stretched out an arm, stopping her.

“You’ll find all the ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and the dishes in the cabinets beside the sink.”

She sputtered for a moment. “Forgiveness shouldn’t come with strings.”

“I’m giving you a chance to put words into action, to prove you mean what you say and help ease the pain of my loss.”

“Fine.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll bake for you.”

Sexiest. Phrase. Ever. “You can start with a pie and finish with a cake, a dozen cookies and cupcakes.”

“Wow, that’s quite a bit of interest.”

“Did I mention I’m feeling quite a bit of pain?”

She glared daggers at him. “I hope you like your pies, cakes, cookies and cupcakes with char. I’ve never baked a dessert I haven’t burned.”

“You can’t be that bad.”

“Want to bet?” Her hips swayed seductively as she ambled to the far side of the kitchen and pointed to a smear of black on the fan over the oven, the one thing Jase had yet to replace. “What has two thumbs and ruins everything she touches?” She hiked her thumbs at her chest. “This girl.”