Why is it that men always feel the need to tell me what I can and cannot do?
And why is it that I always end up having to explain my choices?
His tone has me feeling defensive now, and Ireallyshould consider leaving. Coming back was a mistake.
“Itismy business when little daisies come looking for pizza and slip in harmless puddles. In. My. Establishment.”
He bites off each word, nostrils flaring, and suddenly my body recognizes danger before my brain can.
I step back. He steps forward.
“What did you agree to last night, Daisy Love?”
I blink. “W-what?”
I take another step back.
He takes a bigger one forward.
I bump into the counter behind me and now I’m effectively trapped. He steps into my space, boxing me in with his arms on either side of me. His body is so close I can feel the heat radiating off him and smell freshly baked pizza and… is that vanilla?
I arch away slightly, just to meet his eyes.
“Last time you were here,” he murmurs, gaze locked on mine. “What did you agree to?”
My brain short-circuits. It’s like it’s full of marshmallows, warm toasted marshmallows that smell like sugary vanilla, like the dangerous man taking up all my space.
I can’t think. I can’tbreathe.
This close, I realize his eyes aren’t entirely black—there are flecks of blue swirling in them, giving them a more navy color, framed by those impossibly long lashes and perfectly sculpted pale eyebrows that are currently furrowed at me.
“Daisy.”
The nickname rolls out in a low, deep purr. Oddly, there’s no breath on my face. No puff of air. Just… sound.
Weird.
He leans in and drags his nose along the side of my face, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel his warmth. His chest moves as he inhales deeply and a low sound rolls out from deep in his throat. Almost like a growl.
I‘ve never known anyone to growl like that, but damn if it doesn’t make all those tiny butterflies take flight low in my belly and leave scorching flames behind.
Oh. My. Pizza.
Am I combusting?
Is this spontaneous combustion?
Will I die from mysterious pizza-induced arousal?
Before I can answer any of those questions, the smell ofactualsmoke cuts through the haze.
“Pizza!” I yell at his face like an idiot with no explanation or details.
To his credit, he reacts instantly—already at the oven, pulling out a now-blackened disc of what used to be a pizza, tendrils of smoke rising from the burnt husk.
How thehelldid he move that fast?
He waves a towel to clear the smoke. I cough.
