His response came almost immediately.
Glad to hear it. Your cake selections were excellent, by the way. Even if I had to throw out that shirt.
I smiled despite myself.
You look better without one anyways.
What the actual shit was wrong with me? I tried to recall the text, but he’d already read it.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I muttered, staring at the three little dots as he typed out a response. They disappeared, and I nearly chucked my phone across the room. “I’m an idiot. I’m a fucking idiot.” The dots reappeared, and I held my breath. They disappeared. “Damn it, Gable, just put me out of my misery.”
The threat worked as his message finally arrived.
Is that right? Should I take that as a professional observation, Ms. Landry?
My heart pounded as I read his message. God, even his texts sounded like him,composed with just enough suggestion to make me squirm.
Merely an aesthetic assessment. For the client’s benefit, of course.
Of course. And while we’re making professional observations, I should mention that the way you tasted surpassed every cake we tried today.
Heat flooded my body, pooling low in my belly. I bit my lip, staring at his words. Two could play this game.
Just wait until you try white chocolate raspberry ganache. I’ve been told it pairs nicely with...certain areas.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. I imagined him on the other end, composing and deleting responses, maybe as flustered as I was. God, I hoped he was as flustered.
I’m adding that to my tasting notes. Don’t forget, flower consultation. 2pm. Get some sleep, Landry. Dream of all the places I could lick frosting off you while you were tied down, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
Damn you, Gable.
Sweet dreams, sweetheart.
I groaned and dropped my phone onto the bed. What was happening to me? I’d gone from hating the guy to fantasizing about him. I turned off my phone and pulled the covers over my head, trying to ignore the persistent throb between my legs. Two months of this. Two months of fighting this pull between us. Two months of pretending that what was happening was just physical.
The Kussikov-Martin wedding was going to be the death of me.
More importantly, Hudson Gable was going to be the death of me. Him, and his damn tongue.
CHAPTER 6
Tacos & Beer
HUDSON
Iwas thinking about frosting when Eleanor Trolio called.
Not just any frosting. The specific memory of vanilla buttercream sliding down Mari’s neck, disappearing beneath her collar, and the way her skin had tasted when I’d licked it off. Sweet with a hint of salt. Smooth under my tongue. The sound she’d made—half protest, half pleasure—when I’d caught that first taste.
“Hudson? Are you still there?” Eleanor’s voice crackled through my phone, dragging me back from a memory so vivid I could almost taste sugar.
I straightened in my chair, adjusting my tie, though there was no one to see me in the office I shared with Mari. “Yes, absolutely,” I said, forcing my voice into its professional register. “I was just considering the perfect angles for the constellation projection mockups.”
“Wonderful. I’m thinking a four-page spread. How do you feel about that?”
Guilty.
“I think it sounds great.”
