“This can’t happen again.”
I nod slowly, willing the ache in my chest—and in other, less publicly acceptable places—to settle.
She brushes her fingers across her mouth like she’s trying to erase the kiss. Or maybe keep it. I can’t tell.
“Definitely not,” I agree, and she disappears.
I stand there for a long moment, one hand pressed to my mouth like I can still feel her lips on mine, wondering what the fuck I’ve just done. And why I’m not more worried about it.
Because I know I’ve started falling for Piper Hart. And I have no clue how the hell I’m supposed to stop.
8
PIPER
I wakeup thinking about Felix Barlowe’s mouth.
Specifically, the way it felt pressed against mine yesterday in the kitchen. He kissed me like I was oxygen after he’d been holding his breath for far too long, and I’d responded in the exact same way.
“Not going there,” I mutter into my pillow. “Absolutely not.”
But my traitorous body has other ideas, and the pregnancy hormones currently hijacking my system make a strong case that Felix Barlowe is the answer to all the questions I’m too afraid to ask. Particularly the smutty ones.
I’m ready to force myself into a cold shower, but I sit up and draw in a deep inhale as the most amazing smell drifts up from downstairs. Could that be actual fresh-baked bread at—I check my phone—six-thirty in the morning? Felix seemed embarrassed that his covert identity had been revealed, but even with the freshly-fed starter in the fridge, I didn’t truly believe he was a bona fide bread baker. Based on the way my stomach is growling instead of churning with its typical hormone-induced nausea, I think I’m about to be proven wrong.
I throw on baggy sweats and a sports bra under my T-shirt, bypassing the closed door to the bedroom that Felix moved Ellieinto as I follow my nose downstairs. I find Felix at the kitchen island, joggers hanging sinfully low on his hips and a faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off stretched over his toned chest. His tattoos and muscles make my mouth go dry in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness. His hair is rumpled, and there’s a smudge of flour on his unshaven jaw. A mountain of a man who accidentally stumbled onto the set of a TV baking show.
My ovaries cheer wildly.
“Morning,” he says as he slowly slices something golden-brown in the pan on the counter in front of him. “You want a glass of juice?”
“You seriously baked?” The question comes out more accusatory than I mean, but I’m thrown off by all of it. The muscles, the rumpled hair, the unexpected intimacy of the moment. And that heavenly scent…
“A cinnamon-sugar focaccia,” he confirms, finally glancing up at me. His expression is careful, like he’s trying to gauge where we stand after yesterday’s kitchen incident. Neither of us mentioned the kiss last night, and I plan to keep avoiding the topic. “The recipe uses sourdough discard, so it only takes a couple of hours.” He pauses, then adds with a slight smile, “Now that my baking bro secret’s out, I’m working on a real loaf for you to try. Fair warning, though, sourdough takes time.”
“The best things do,” I murmur, tempted to place a hand on my stomach, then move to the sink for a glass of water, trying not to bump into him. The area between the counter and the island isn’t exactly narrow, but Felix takes up a lot of space, and my body is very aware that we’re alone. In fact, my nipples seem to have their own ideas about this whole situation. Praise the Lord for a padded sports bra. “What time did you get up?”
“Before five. I couldn’t sleep.” He plates a piece of the bread and holds it out to me. “Try this.”
“I’m not really hun?—”
“Just try it, Hart. Don’t make things weird.”
Ignoring the fact that everything about this is weird, I take the plate. Our fingers brush for half a second. Even that brief contact sends sparks shooting along my skin, which is ridiculous. But I bite into the bread and—oh my God.
It’s perfect. Still warm from the oven, and practically melts in my mouth. I might make a sound that’s not entirely appropriate this early in the morning. Or anytime anywhere out of the bedroom.
Felix’s blue eyes darken just a fraction. “Good, right?”
“This is genuinely unfair,” I say around another bite. “You can’t have washboard abs and also bake something that makes me want to eat the whole pan in one sitting.”
“You like my abs?” He lifts his shirt to reveal said washboard, and I just about forget my own name.
“I like your focaccia more,” I lie.
He grins. “Sure you do. But you have plenty of talents. The most impressive one is getting a two-year-old to eat her veggies without throwing a fit.” He takes a bite of his own piece of bread, and I try not to watch the way his throat works when he swallows. “That’s actual sorcery.”
“I’m used to giving kids shots. Veggies are a cake walk in comparison.” I take a seat at one of the island’s high stools. To my surprise, my stomach seems to have no problem with me shoveling in the bread like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Felix takes the carton of juice from the fridge, pours me a glass, and slides it in my direction. The fact that this man, who I don’t want to like, seems intent on taking care of me is beyond weird. It’s disconcerting, disturbing and it feels dangerously domestic. “Ellie’s easy compared to some of the toddlers I’ve worked with.”
