Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
As we work, we talk about the Sugar Bowl. I run him through the routine, from the pre-opening prep to closing cleanup.
He asks probing questions.
Like where we source our ingredients, how often they’re delivered, whether we have a website and what state it’s in. The last one’s pretty embarrassing—we do have a website, but it hasn’t been updated in seven years, and it shows.
We’re barely equipped to answer emails, much less handle mobile orders. And when it comes to having a nifty app, I might as well wish for a unicorn.
An hour later, I can’t say I mind the extra muscle.
Working together, we blow through everything a lot faster than usual. I set Dex to mopping the front while I clean up the equipment in the back.
“What about your plans for upgrades and renovations?” he asks as I exit the kitchen. The floor’s almost finished, too, gleaming wet and smelling like fresh lemon. A floor that we’ll have to do something with eventually if we ever want to shake off decades of wear and grout grime. “I made a tentative inventory last night of the stuff I’ve seen here, but I was wondering what you were thinking.”
He made an inventory? Last night? On his own time?
He needs to stop before I cry.
“We don’t have to talk more business,” I tell him. “It’s getting late and we’ve got a good start.”
I hang my apron up and switch off the lights, plunging half of the store into darkness. He looks diabolically good when he works like that, the shirt tight against his back with his biceps bunching.
Damn, those muscles.
I shouldn’t be looking and I know it.
He’s my fake fiancé, not a piece of red meat.
I close the distance between us, trying not to check him out obsessively, even though that’s totally what I’m doing.
“Well, if you really want to know, I’m thinking about replacing the mixers and ovens first and—”
I’m not paying attention. My feet slide out from under me and the next second I’m windmilling violently, flapping my arms and trying to catch my balance.
For a hot second, everything slows down.
I hear Dexter swear.
I feel a thick, strong hand grabbing my arm and jerking me up.
Before I can blink again, he hauls me upright and suddenly I’m against the wall in front of him, barely breathing.
Yes, it’s every cheesy rom-com scene come to life, complete with the clumsy almost-fall where the hero literally sweeps you off your feet.
In the movies, this is where Prince Charming kisses me like he can’t live without me. And I’m flustered but I’m able to breathlessly confess how much I want this, how I’ve been dreaming about him nonstop.
Oh, I’ve definitely done some dreaming, all right.
But since this is real life and not a dream, I’m just an overheated mess.
I’m pressed against the wall with Dexter Rory leaning over me with less than an inch of space between us, that firm hand still on my upper arm, his heat impossible to escape.
He smells so intense, that teakwood cologne doused in testosterone.
I lick my lips, trying to convince myself that jumping his bones in the middle of my store might not be the best decision.
Then his gaze dips to my mouth, studying my lips like they’re a ripe strawberry.
My breath catches.
I’m so dizzy that if he wasn’t holding me up, I think I’d fall right over again.
Oof.
Like he needs another chance to notice how pathetically into him I am, craving against my better judgment—against any judgment—and how much my body wants him with an ache that’s obscene.
The desire sinks to my core.
The thought of kissing him again feels like warm water, this steamy liquid gravity pulling me under.
He looks up at me again and the heat in his eyes strips the oxygen from my lungs, brandishing a hunger that ties me in knots.
Holy mother of God.
Worst of all, I think we’re both dumbstruck, too drunk on the moment to even speak.
His breath is too heavy.
It falls across my lips until I can’t think past the urge to let him devour me, to find out what that rough, scary mouth of his can do to me.
What would his kiss feel like on my skin?
What would he do if he knew he could just strip me down and let that evil mouth roam wild and—
His lips slam into mine with a groan erupting from his depths.
I’m toasting a human volcano and it’s as delirious as it sounds.
I can’t feel my legs anymore as he lifts me up, the better to taste me, melting me down in his arms for a heavenly second.
Then he jerks back like I’m electrified, his eyes flicking to mine, stormy and troubled.
“Junie, you can’t do that shit.” He’s snarling when he releases my arm and veers away, cursing under his breath. “I’ll pick you up this weekend. We can talk in more detail after the art show. You’re right, this isn’t the time or place,” he says, his voice burned.