“…are parents,” he finished for her. “They want what is best for you.”
“Even if I don’t agree on what that might be,” Bryony said with a sigh. “But who can blame them? I’m stubborn and impulsive—”
“Smart and beautiful,” he interrupted.
“—independent and mannish—”
“Kindhearted and talented,” he said firmly.
“—more interested in numbers than fashion—”
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her to him. “You’re perfect exactly as you are. What is the point of this line of talk?”
“That I’m not better than you.” Her voice was urgent. “My mother is wrong. You are a person anyone would wish to be like. I’m not too good for you. You’re too good for me.”
His throat was suddenly tight. “Poppycock. You’re just trying to get me to kiss you.”
She peered up at him through her lashes. “Is it working?”
In reply, he slanted his mouth over hers.
She was indeed a brilliant, headstrong, fascinating, maddening creature. She was exactly what he needed.
Her mother’s bluntness might have dashed any foolish hopes for a future together, but she had done nothing to quench Max’s desire for having Bryony right now.
She was more than a desire. She was an addiction.
That was why he had to stop kissing her, no matter how sweet her lips. He couldn’t keep losing himself in the moment when this moment was all that they had. He knew better. And yet he could not tear his lips from hers.
She tasted like spun sugar and possibility. Rainbows after a summer storm.
Every kiss ripped another crack in the stone encasing his heart. If he did not stop soon, all his defenses would crumble away.
He did not dare take such a risk when he already knew the outcome.
Yet when he was with her, logic no longer prevailed. The rhythm of his pulse made him pull her ever closer. It was a dance. A melody. The yearning in his heart made him deepen every kiss. The throbbing of his—
Smoke. Something smelled like smoke.
Bryony tore her mouth from his with a horrified gasp. “The biscuits are on fire!”
Not yet, but they would be soon if Max did not take immediate action to rectify the situation.
He wrapped the closest washrag about his hand and pulled the baking pan from the fire.
Twelve generously toasted lumps greeted them.
Bryony’s eyes shimmered.
“I practiced all morning,” she whispered brokenly. “I wanted them to be perfect. For you. I wanted tobeperfect, just this once.”
“You are.” He yanked her back into his embrace. “You always have been.”
This kiss was different. More savage. More vulnerable.
He loved that she’d baked him a dozen burnt biscuits. He loved her for being her. For coming to call when she should not. For breaking into his club when she should not. For being in his arms when she should not.
She had tried her damnedest to make room for him in her world and was hoping he could offer her a tiny slice of his.
