“Am I allowed to leave? Have any plans to drug me or zip-tie me today?”
“No, Callie Callahan.” He has the common courtesy of hanging his head and looking remorseful. “And I’m sorry about both of those things.”
“Three of those things. You drugged me twice.”
“Right. I’m sorry about all three of those things.” He bites back what I’m guessing is an adorable smirk. “To make it up to you, I brought your car over last night and cleared the snow off it again this morning. Plus ran the snowblower so you can actually get out of my driveway. The roads have been plowed but are still shit, so you need to drive home carefully.”
He did what now? I slide into the chair across from Wesand blink at him as I take my first glorious sip of coffee. Amazing all around. Then another smell hits me. Something sweet and warm and sugary.
“What’s that smell?” My stomach growls loudly to emphasize the question.
“Oh! Right.” Wes heads back into the kitchen and pulls open his oven. “Perfect.” He slides on an oven mitt and produces a gorgeous apple pie, the pastry top a perfect golden color crisscrossed on top of moist, sweet slices of apple pie covered in sugary goo.
“Holy shit. You made a pie?”
Wes nods. “I’m working through top crust options so I can beat Ruth Roy at the Portland Springfest apple pie competition in six weeks.”
“There’s a lot to unpack there, but let’s start with who is Ruth Roy?” I hate myself for being interested in his life, but I can’t help it. I tuck a leg underneath my butt and lean forward.
Also, this helps explain the pie artwork in the bedroom.
“She’s a nasty eighty-year-old woman who has had it in for me ever since the first year I entered the pie competition and squeaked out a first-place win. She got second and has hated me ever since.” His face darkens. “I also haven’t beaten her since.”
What the fuck is happening here? I’m not sure what to do. Commiserate? Encourage?
“Can we eat it?” I wave to the steaming apple pie on the stovetop and kind of hate myself for sounding so eager.
“Of course we can eat the pie.” Wes grins and reaches up to pull out two plates. I can’t help but watch how his shoulder muscles shift through his sweatshirt as he moves around the kitchen. He pushes up his sleeves, revealingsinewy forearms with those tattoo sleeves. “Whipped cream?”
“For the pie?”
“Yes, for the pie.” I can see the asshole grin from the side of his face. “What else would it be for?”
“I don’t know. And yes.” I attempt to infuse absolute casualness into my tone, not let on that for some fucking reason my mind went sexual when he suggested whipped cream. Not that I’ve ever used food with sex.
By the time he turns to me with the slices of pie on plates, I’m still eye fucking him. Wes smirks and slides a plate in front of me.
This whole situation is so weird.
First of all, I’m married. To a scumbag asshole. But I’m not available for dating or fucking or whatever.
Second of all, this is the man who had me zip-tied to a kitchen chair yesterday.
Third of all, I have no interest at all in another man. In fact, I’ll hopefully never date again.
Fucking Shane. Just thinking of him makes me mad. Actually, what would really make him mad is me having slept at this hot hacker dude’s cabin and sitting down to have coffee and homemade pie with him.
Wes settles across from me, and I take another gulp of my delicious coffee. Oh. Oh no.
“Wait, you didn’t drug the coffee, did you?” I’ve already chugged half the mug. Fuck!
“No, but wouldn’t that have been a good question five minutes ago before you took your first sip?”
“I guess, but—” I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that what that look was for?”
“Yeah. I was wondering when you were going to makesure the coffee was safe to drink. Not that last night’s hot chocolate wasn’t safe, but, well, you know what I mean.”
“Stop drugging me, and I won’t have to be so on guard.”
