Owen grimaced. His normally perfectly controlled demeanor was askew. He had batter on his cheek. His platinum hair hung in his face, and his shirt was rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone.
“I, uh—I don't have to explain myself to you!” he shouted back over the blaring siren.
I pushed past him, set the brownies on the counter, and fanned the fire alarm.
Rudolph was barking, all four feet leaving the ground with every yelp.
“Shhh,” I told the husky puppy. “Honestly, Owen, are you trying to burn this tower down? I could have come and baked you cookies if you'd just asked.”
“I have it under control,” he said in a clipped tone, dumping the pan and all the cookies into the trash can. I snatched the oven mitt from him and pulled the pan out.
“You're going to be sorry when it melts the plastic,” I told him, putting it in the sink. “What were you trying to do?”
Owen shrugged helplessly.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying not to smile. “It was my sugar cookies, wasn't it?”
“No,” he said mulishly.
“Yes, it is!” I crowed. “I knew it! I knew you wanted my cookies. Admit it!” I sang, dancing around him. “My Christmas cookies are life changing.”
He grabbed me suddenly, pressing me against his body for a brief moment. His teeth caught his lower lip. He grinned slightly then released me.
“Are you hot? Because I'm really warm. I think we need to open a few more windows in here,” I squeaked. I hustled over to the French doors out to the balcony, throwing them open to let the winter air inside.
Owen watched me from across the room. Why was I acting so weird? I had actually come up here to tempt him with a very Merry Christmas after all.
“I thought I could make the cookies,” Owen admitted after a moment. “I had a computer program and everything.” He gestured to his laptop.
I peered at the recipe on the screen. “Good gracious! I'm not surprised the cookies burned with the amount of sugar you're using.”
Owen scowled at the computer and muttered, “Worthless program.”
“If you wanted my Christmas cookies,” I said with a wink, “you should have just asked. I'd be happy to give you a taste!”
“I'll file that away for later,” he said, that deep voice wrapping around me.
“Or we could do it now,” I offered, not sure which type of cookies I was offering.
Owen closed the distance between us. “You're going to give me a taste of your Christmas cookies?” he asked, eyes dark. We were inches apart. His hands came up to rest on my waist.
“I mean, if you really want them,” I said and swallowed.
“I do.”
Owen was so freaking intense; I'd never been with any man like him. The guys I normally dated were some flavor of hipster with interchangeable man buns working on their new song, failing nonprofit, or great American novel.
Yet here was Owen. He was the CEO of his own company, possessed more real estate than I would even know what to do with, and had a body that looked like someone had chiseled it out of ice.
It was suddenly a little too much.
I pulled away and clapped my hands. “Cookie time! I'm going to teach you how to bake!”
Owen growled slightly in the back of his throat but followed me around the kitchen. I opened the fridge. It was stuffed with butter and cream.
“Oh my goodness, either you're going overboard on the Bulletproof coffee or you're planning on making enough cookies to feed your entire office.”
“I wanted enough to run experiments.”
