“Maybe,” Dottie says.
“Oh, hush,” the owner tells her.
We leave, and when we’re on the street, I turn to Corbin, a burst of gratitude filling my chest. Gratitude for him, and, well, for me. “Thank you for not rushing in to save me. I needed to do that on my own.”
“I had a feeling. Plus, it was clearly important to you.”
The way he says that, with pride, makes my stomach flutter once again. I like that he knows when to save the day and when to let me try to save it myself.
Back at the bakery, that flutter kicks up several notches when he sets down the now-empty bags and gives me a once-over. Stopping at my hair, he lifts a hand and ever so tenderly runs a finger down a strand, like he’s never felt anything softer or silkier. “Your hair would look really nice with that ribbon tomorrow.”
My heart thunders. “I’ll wear it.”
If he stays a second longer, I’ll want to try out Remy’s Dirty Dog too. “And you need to go. You have a game tonight.”
“I know,” he says with some reluctance, then glances toward the street that’ll take him back to the city to play the sport he loves. “I should head out.”
“I’ll be rooting for you.”
“Just need to grab something,” he says, trotting upstairs.
I need to clean the kitchen anyway, so while he’s up there, I head for the sink where I left some bowls and the basting brush from the cinnamon rolls. I start with washing the brush, and I’m drying it with a dish towel when Corbin returns.
I turn off the water, and he stops a foot away, his gaze straying to the brush. He picks it up from the rack, considers it, then dries it off one more time with the dish towel.
“Just helping,” he says, his voice edged with a playful roughness.
“Are you now?”
“I like to help,” he says, leveling a hot and flirty gaze my way, one that sends a wave of heat rolling down my spine.
“I’ve noticed.”
“You have?”
“Yes,” I say, curious what he’s up to. He seems to have an agenda.
His eyes never stray from me. They’re molten, full of dirty ideas. Ideas that have been flickering since he walked in on me. Ideas I’m very curious about.
“Do you need help with anything else?” he asks, holding the basting brush, flicking the bristles against his long fingers.
Only with this ache between my thighs.
But I bite my lip so I don’t say that out loud.
He tilts his head, the corner of his lips quirking up in a tease. “What did you justnotsay, Mabel?”
He noticed I edited myself. But I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
“Not going to tell me?” He runs the pad of his finger over the bristles now, then roams his eyes over me.
He has a game to go to, but he doesn’t look like he has any plans for leaving.
“I guess not,” I say, clenching my thighs as if that will ease the ache between them.
“Then I can’t help,” he says with a frown, flicking the bristles like he’s testing the texture, the softness, the possibilities.
I whimper at the sight of him assessing the kitchen implement. Somewhere inside of me, I know what he’s planning to do with it. Everywhere inside me wants him to.
