While she worked, Maurice moved around the shop with a clean, damp rag, touching up, straightening chairs and wiping fingerprints off the display cases they’d missed the day before.
Several times, she caught him staring at her, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as if he knew her secret.
And he did.
Each time, her core heated, and her pulse quickened.
The sooner she finished the baking and delivered the product to Broussard’s, the sooner she could buy more condoms. Monday was her day off. She could do whatever she wanted to, including spending the day in bed.
With Maurice.
If he was willing.
Based on the smoldering glances he was sending her way, he was willing.
Once the bread and pastries were baked, bagged and tagged, Maurice helped her load them into the delivery van. The sun was just rising as they closed the back door and rounded to the front.
She held out her hand. “I’m not leaving without you know what.”
His lips curved in a smile. “Let me guess. Your mother told you always to wear clean underwear in case you got into an accident.”
Her cheeks heated. “Exactly.” She wiggled her fingers. “Give me.”
With a sigh, he pulled the panties from his pocket. “Can’t go against a mother’s loving rule.” He held out the panties.
She reached for them, but he snatched them back. “Did you learn anything from your morning working while going commando beneath your dress?”
“Yes.” She lunged for his hand, snagged the undergarment and darted away. “Never trust a man who gives you an orgasm and steals your panties.”
She stepped into the panties in front of him and pulled them up beneath the dress. “Now, I need to get these items to Broussard’s before they open for the day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maurice gave her a mock salute. “Just so you know, I’ve had a hard-on all morning knowing I had your panties and you didn’t.”
No man had the right to be as sexy as Maurice Boucher.
Amelie’s sex clenched. Alan Broussard had better have a huge stock of condoms, or she’d be in deep trouble for the rest of her day off.
And he did.
After they deposited the pastries and bread, Amelie shopped for a few necessities, including a dozen eggs, a beef roast, baking potatoes and fresh salad ingredients. She slipped into the toiletries aisle at the last minute, searching for a big box of protection.
Having left Maurice talking with Alan Broussard, Amelie figured she had a few minutes alone to find what she needed and slip it into her cart.
“The ribbed ones give the woman more pleasure. Of course, the man couldn't care less as long as he’s protected from paternity suits.”
Amelie spun, heat filling her cheeks as she faced Chrissy Brousard, mother of six Alan Broussard’s wife and Amelie’s friend Shelby’s older sister. “Hey, Chrissy. How’s the little one?”
Alan’s pretty bride held her sixth child cradled in her arms, barely four months old and suckling at her breast barely concealed beneath a light blanket. She smiled. “Trust me. You want as much pleasure as you can get before you’re swimming in babies and never get a whole night’s sleep to yourself.”
Amelie had always admired how Chrissy juggled motherhood and business ownership like a champ. Her children might not always be as well put together as their mother, Chrissy, but they had clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads and healthy food to help them grow big and strong.
“Um. I was just looking for some ointment for a rash I might have.” She reached for a tube of hydrocortisone.
“Honey, don’t let embarrassment keep you from protecting yourself and your future. Your choice to be with a man shouldn’t be because you didn’t take the proper precautions, and now you can’t afford to raise a child on your own. Women should never have to rely on a man to help them raise a child. They should be in a position to raise a child on their own.”
Her cheeks still burning, Amelie looked away. “I would never abandon a child because I made a bad call sleeping with his father.”
Chrissy’s face relaxed, and she chuckled. “I’m giving you a hard time when I should be helping you celebrate good times.”
