“Warming you up.” He continued his exploration by massaging a pressure point at the base of her neck.
She swallowed a moan. “I’m fine.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying her declaration. The pads of his thumbs did things to her muscles that should probably be outlawed.
“We’re in public.” She didn’t need to look down to know her nipples had pebbled beneath her silk blouse. Air conditioning did that to a girl. Also, Brek’s hands working their magic. Not a whole lot she could do about either.
“No one’s here.” Brek’s breath whispered against her earlobe.
“Which flavors did they pick?” Velma shrugged off his hands.
He let them drop. “Chocolate, vanilla, lemon drop, coconut cream, and confetti cake.”
“Did they really ask for confetti cake for their wedding?” Velma asked.
“Yep.” Brek slipped the menu from Velma’s fingers and placed it on the counter. “I’ve got a theory about cake and marriage.”
Velma laughed, the sound uncomfortable to her ears. “I bet you’re going to tell me all about it.”
He shrugged. “You read articles. I have theories.”
“What’s your theory, then, Mr. Montgomery?” She flipped through a photo album filled with pictures of multi-tiered wedding confections.
“Vanilla? Boring. They’ll be divorced within a year,” he replied.
Sheesh. His body remained only millimeters from hers. The scent of him mingled deliciously with the frosting and carbs. She fixed her attention back on the album, shuffling through the pages.
“You still with me?” No touching, but the lack of contact was nearly as erotic as the neck massage.
“Chocolate?” The word was a tad squeaky.
He chuckled. “Passion. The marriage will be filled with it. Kitchen table. Washing machine. Everywhere.”
“Like sexonthe kitchen table?” He couldn’t be serious. That was highly unsanitary.
“All. The. Time.”
Oh.
“See now, lemon?” he continued. “They’ll hit their fiftieth wedding anniversary without issue.”
Lemon cake sounded lovely. Respectable. Not at all dirty. Lemon cake would be served at her wedding. Someday. When she found a groom. “And the…uh…confetti cake?”
“Means they’re swingers.”
The air weighed heavy against her. No way would her sister pick a swinger cake. “What about coconut cream?”
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Infection. Avoid that one.”
A laugh rattled her chest. She held the back of her hand to her lips.
His expression gentled. “Good to see you laugh, V.”
She fiddled with a plastic edge of the photo album.
His phone chimed. He glanced to the screen. “I’ve gotta take this.”
He strode outside, stopped at the picture window, and leaned against one of the pillars.
