A low, rough rumble sounds from deep within his chest. It’s barely audible and yet I feel it all the same. The vibrations skimover my skin like warm fingertips, and every tiny hair on my arms stand at attention while my insides clench.
Max is a shifter. He can smell my arousal.
And he likes it.
My pulse pounds so hard I’m certain he can see it fluttering beneath my skin, and I’m hit by the dizzying sensation that this man knows exactly what’s happening inside my mind. That he can somehow read every pornographic thought racing through it.
I tighten my grip on the cake stand until my knuckles ache, grateful for something solid to anchor me before I float away on a tide of wildly inappropriate daydreams.
Beside me, Candi makes a pointed choking noise, effectively dousing me with a bucket of ice water.
I blink, remembering with painful clarity that I’m standing in the middle of Max’s front walkway holding a lopsided cake while my lifelong nemesis watches every second unfold.
“Well,” she says brightly, turning her pageant-perfect smile on Max, “I’d say this first impression has certainly been memorable.”
Her gaze slides over me, lingering on the strands of hair that have escaped my bun, the streaks of frosting around my nails, and the increasingly questionable structural integrity of my cake.
“To be honest, Lila, I’m impressed with the amount of effort you’ve clearly put into your dessert. It takes real talent to make something as simple as baking a cake look like a contact sport.”
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
Her fake grin is stretched as tightly as mine.
“That wasn’t really a compliment,” she hisses.
“I’ve known you since Tater Tots Pre-K.” I tilt my head. “I speak fluent Candi-with-an-I.”
She tips her head back and laughs like we’re old friends at boozy brunch and not mortal enemies. “Oh, Lila. You’ve always been sospirited.”
Translation:You’ve always been too messy and loud and unapologetically human.
My fingers tighten around the cake stand. For a therapeutic moment, I picture planting this entire three-tier delicious-yet-objectively-disastrous cake squarely onto Candi’s flawlessly moisturized, meticulously plucked face. Maybe a decorative sugar pearl will get lodged in her nostril like we’re back in kindergarten.
Either way, it would be satisfying for at least ten seconds. Okay, twenty.
Before I can contemplate whether assault with buttercream carries jail time, Max reaches for the gift basket.
“Thanks, Candi.” He smiles politely as he takes it from her. “I appreciate you stopping by.”
Candi inhales, jaw unhinging as she readies herself to launch into whatever carefully rehearsed speech accompanies handing over a basket wrapped with that much cellophane. But before she’s able to utter the first syllable, Max turns back to me.
“Do you want to come in? It’d be a shame for that cake to end up on the ground before I get a chance to taste it.”
I blink. “You mean…me? Go inside your house?”
His expression shifts, concern replacing confidence. “Only if you’re comfortable with that,” he says quickly, adjusting the basket against his hip. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of predator or anything.”
He pauses.
“I mean…” A faint flush creeps up his cheeks. “Technically Iama predator. The whole fox shifter thing… But not like a murderer.” He winces. “Although, now that I hear myself say it out loud, that does sound like something a murderer would say.”
One hand abandons the basket long enough to rake through his hair before dropping to the silver fox charm hanging around his neck, his thumb worrying the pendant back and forth.
“You know what?” he mutters. “I probably shouldn’t have brought murder at all. I’m sorry. I just…” He gestures vaguely between us with the hand not occupied by the basket as a sheepish laugh escapes him. “I am saying all sorts of words.”
My heart does a weird little swoop as his ears turn pink. It’s so adorable I can’t help but rescue him from himself.
“I’d love to come in. Since your arms are full and everything.”
