Worse, I can still feel the breeze caressing my bare ass while Max Lark crouched directly behind me. The memory of the strangled noise he made sends a flutter through my stomach.
Not that that was the last time Max left me breathless.
For nearly two weeks, I’ve manufactured an impressive number of completely accidental encounters with Crescent Cove’s newest resident. I delivered blackberry hand pies becauseI’d “made too many,” recruited him to haul tables and hang lights for the festival, and stopped him on the boardwalk to ask several urgent, judge-related questions about frosting. Every interaction has technically been competition related. Every interaction has also ended with me staring into his brilliant green eyes while suppressing my raging hormones.
At this point, I’m pretty sure Max knows what I’m doing.
I’m also pretty sure he likes it.
His fingers brush mine when I hand him things. He finds innocent reasons to move closer. And every time he inhales near my neck, his pupils swallow his green irises while a low, hungry rumble rolls through his chest.
No, brain. We are not lusting after the fox shifter.
Not with Candi feet away and in possession of the supernatural ability to sense weakness. Or maybe that’s bears… Either way, I’m not risking it.
“I hope you managed to recover from your fall over at Max’s.” She smooths her fingertips through her sleek ponytail, lips twitching. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen himmanytimes since andexplained how difficult first impressions can be for you. It was a tough day, staying back to help him clean up everyhard, sticky inch.”
“I need a rehydration break,” I announce.
“Again?”
“Candi, you have to drink water to stay alive.” I frown. “I’m worried about your kidneys.”
She blinks at me. Before she’s able to fire off another cutting retort, I march toward the nearest table and retrieve the hot pink notebook and matching pen from my bag before heading to the hydration tent set up on the far side of the festival grounds. I flip past my to do list, frosting flavor combinations, day job virtual-assistant passwords I should absolutely store somewhere more secure, and a rough sketch of Mr. Biscuits wearing the FrostingQueen tiara to a page with OPERATION: BUTTER UP THE JUDGE in blue glitter gel pen.
Clearly I’m in my bribery era, but this seems a little too incriminating.
I cross out JUDGE and replace it with FOX.
OPERATION: BUTTER UP THE FOX
I wince. That sounds dirtier.
Beneath the title, I’ve already plotted out my plan.
Establish friendly, neighborly relationship.
Demonstrate superior baking skills.
Make him forget cake-face-plant-foyer incident.
Do not flash ass. Again.
