Page 51 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Then he gently pulls my long hair out from under the apron strap. When my hair thumps down against my back, I nearly groan with disappointment because it wasn’t enough. And even though I know he’s leaving in another month or so, I can’t deny that I want more of his touch.

More of him.

I think he feels the same way. And heaven help me, I want to see how far I can push him before he breaks. To see if there is something here worth exploring. I’m suddenly not just a crazed crying woman, but a crazed woman on a mission.

So, I turn around and offer him my wrist.

He looks down at it, eyebrows knit together.

I smile and wiggle my finger at the rubber band that I keep there whenever I leave my hair down. I’m never without a way to tie back my mane—and now I’m congratulating myself on that feat of genius. “My hair keeps getting in my eyes. Would you mind pulling it back for me?”

A muscle tics in his jaw, and the rings around his irises darken. He clears his throat. “Sure. I mean, no.” Swallows. “I don’t mind.” His words burst out short, staccato, and he looks pointedly at me until a giggle burbles up in my chest, and I turn away from him again.

This time, instead of dropping my hair like it’s hot lava the moment he touches it fully, his hands gather it slowly like someone might collect flowers in a field on a languid summer day. I might imagine the deep rumble in his chest, but I definitely am not dreaming up the way his fingers comb gently through my hair to get any tangles out. Or the way he releases it, gathers it again, the way his fingertips brush up and down the sides of my neck and he takes his dear sweet time tying my locks back.

How can something as simple as having this man touch my hair be more sensuous than anything I’ve ever known with anyone else? Granted, my dating experience is pretty limited, but Blake’s touch is so innocent—yet it’s burning a trail across my skin, wreaking havoc on my entire nervous system, my respiratory system. My circulatory system too.

And when he’s done and sets the ponytail gently against my back, I’m in luck, because a few wisps still hang in my eyes. “Hey,” I say, my voice as delicate as spun glass. I’m afraid of breaking this spell.

“Hmm?” He leans closer, his breath warm on my bare shoulder.

I turn around fully to face him and point to the eyelashes on my right eye, where another piece of hair has gotten stuck. “Can you get that hair out of my eye, please?”

“Okay.” With great care, he leans closer, squinting as he looks for the blonde hair in the boxed light of the kitchen. Finally, he finds it and swoops it out of the way, his thumb trailing over my cheekbone as he tucks the hair behind my ear. “There.” His voice is husky, and it’s all I can do not to clutch his clean blue shirt with my doughy hands.

We hang out here for what seems like hours, the most delightful game of chicken I’ve ever played, staring, blinking, breathing. After stroking my cheek, his hand drops to my shoulder, then skims down my upper arm, falling to my waist as he takes one step nearer, closing the gap between us. My hip is scalded by the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my shirt, my mouth as dry as this flour caked onto my hands.

Heart pounding in my throat, I tilt my chin up and wordlessly dare Blake Moffitt to kiss me.

And he wants to. I know he does. His breath is stuttered, his eyes blinking rapidly. A vein in his neck jumps.

But with pursed lips, he finally steps away. Clears his throat. “Ready to start?”

What. Was. That.

Of course, I can’t show him how much he’s affected me. How much I wanted that kiss. It’s probably good that one of us is keeping our heads. We’re right back where we were more than a decade ago, except this time, there’s no father influencing his decisions. This time, it’s Blake making the call.

It makes sense. He doesn’t want anything but Marilee tying him to Hallmark Beach. To anywhere that isn’t L.A., where his dream job awaits.

So, I shake off the rejection and wiggle my mucked-up fingers at him. “Ready.”

“All right. Show me that recipe.”

I point to my phone, and he opens it and laughs. “Aw, Sunshine. You went straight for the hardest version of baklava, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, sometimes, homemade is best.” He waltzes to the fridge, rummages for a moment, and emerges with a white box. “But other times, just go with the premade stuff.”

Oh, thank goodness. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I head to the sink to wash my hands and he unboxes the phyllo dough and quickly cuts it to fit a small rimmed pan he pulled from underneath the oven. We work in relative silence for a while, him patiently showing me what to do and then watching while I do it. His critiques are never harsh, and his gentle undertones are relaxed and calm.

“You remind me of her, you know,” I find myself saying.

“Who?”

“Your mom.” The air is heavy with the admission, and I rush on. “She loved baking with you guys. And the way you’re teaching me now…it’s the way she taught you.”

“Thank you, Lucy. That means more than you know.” He’s quiet for a long while, and I look up to see him run a hand along his jaw. “When we’d cook together in the kitchen, it was like the whole world disappeared. All the pressure, all the fuss to make good grades and play football and do something big and important with my life.”

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