SHAY
THE WOMEN WERE right.
Cash Can Cook is a naked baker.
He fills the doorway when he pulls the door shut. Shirtless.
Again.
Light from the windows spills over his bare chest. My eyes drop before I can stop them to where denim sits low on his hips. The jeans are broken in by motion, by habit—by muscle.
My fingers warm.
My heart skips a beat.
If I’m honest, my fingers aren’t the only place that warms.
Good lord, what is wrong with me?
He smiles at me. “Hey.” The one word is liquid sweetness and desire all wrapped into a sound that tickles my insides.
With anger. Obviously.
“Change your mind?” His dark hair has dried into its natural defiance, like it refuses to be tamed. “Gonna join us after all?”
I hold up my tray. “No.”
There’s an awkward silence. It’s just a few seconds, but it feels like the longest seconds of my life, loud with everything I’m trying not to think about.
Maybe that’s because every image those ladies said comes rushing back, uninvited.
Licking the spoon.
Spanking the dough.
“Have a good night, though.” I try to rush past him, but his suitcase takes up one side of the hallway, and he takes up the other side.
There is no graceful way around it.
Or around him.
“Sorry.” I angle my body sideways, careful to keep the tray level.
My knee knocks the edge of the suitcase. I shift again and misjudge the distance.
I bump straight into him.
All bare torso and all solid heat.
The tray tilts.
My brain tilts.
Everything inside of me warms.
I gasp.
Honestly, because of all three.
