“Macarons!” I clap my hands, suddenly giddy. A row of pristine light green and pink macarons are encased in a plastic sleeve with a tidy little bow. The label readsScooter’s Confections.
He grins and pride radiates in his expression. “I have to admit I didn’t bake these. Myles was up last Friday and he brought me some from his sister-in-law’s bakery in Bourbon Canyon.”
The delighted look on his face, all because of my enthusiasm, hits me hard. This guy wants to make me happy. Can it be as simple as that?
It could be, if I weren’t getting blackmailed.
How do I keep my shit from affecting him? Do I offer to pay Damon more if he’ll never stop by the bakery again? Would Damon even honor that agreement?
Cruz hands me a green macaron. “You like pistachio?”
I’m gladly yanked out of my head. “I fucking love pistachio. And if I don’t have to make my own macarons? Even better.” I love my job, but this is a treat for me. I don’t get out enough to try other bakeries.
He reads the plastic container it was in. “Pistachio with cherry bourbon filling.”
I bite into it and groan. The slight crunch of the outer shell is perfection, and the smooth burst of cherry with it gives my taste buds an orgasm. “So good,” I say around my mouthful.
The denim blue of his eyes turns to midnight. “Have another one.”
I’m not even finished with my first before he hands me a pink macaron. I giggle around the last two bites of pistachio. This is so blissfully romantic, yet it seems normal at the same time.Only Cruz can pull that off, and do it when I’m under so much pressure.
“This one is cherry with pistachio filling.” He pivots on the bench seat so his legs are flanking me.
He hasn’t taken a bite yet, so I hold the cherry pistachio macaron up for him. “You first.” The last time I hand-fed him turned out quite pleasantly.
He holds my gaze as he takes a bite. His lips graze my fingertips and a shiver ghosts down my spine. I have never been so turned on while enjoying all nature has to offer.
A satisfied grunt leaves him and he swallows. “That is good.”
I pop the rest in my mouth and my eyelids roll back. “Ugh. I’m never making them again. I’ll just buy these. Now I won’t want a cupcake.”
He cocks a brow and gets that wicked look in his eyes that I’ve only ever seen him use on me. He digs out the two cupcakes and the piping bag of bright yellow frosting. Nice and summery. Narrowing his eyes as he concentrates, he pipes the frosting onto each cupcake in a sloppy circle. “Damn. You make this look easy.”
“It’s the technique. You have to gauge that grip strength. Too hard and it all just shoots out.” The way his eyes smolder spurs me on. “Too light, and not enough comes out. You might have to keep squeezing and squeezing.”
His fingers tighten on the bag and a little dollop falls out. “You might have to show me exactly what you mean.”
“We’re out of cupcakes.” I’m playing with fire, but my belly is full, the day is beautiful, and we’re far enough away from town that the worries about my ex and his brother can’t get to me.
The gleam in his eye gets brighter, but he gathers all the containers and empty plates. He sets them back in the bag he packed, gently loads the two frosted cupcakes back into thelunch bag, and pushes them aside. Then he pats the table in front of him. “Climb on.”
My breath hitches, but I do as he orders. The tablecloth is warm under my shorts, and he spreads my legs until they’re on either side of him.
He holds the piping bag and looks at me like he wants to say something.
I sit forward and stroke my fingers down his cheek. “Talk to me.”
His dark gaze softens, but there’s timidity there. “Earlier, you called yourself my girlfriend.”
Oh. Was that bad? “I should’ve asked first.”
“No,” he says gruffly. “It’s exactly what I want to hear.”
“Really?”
“It means you’re mine, and now we both know it.” He lifts the piping bag. “Take your shirt and bra off. I’m having a sugar craving.”
Butterflies explode in my belly and careen back and forth, but I do as he asks. I need to shut my brain off and halt the endless to-do list running through my head and just feel. Cruz will do that for me. He already is—this is just the cherry on top.
