Page 87 of The Kiss of Deception

“Slow down?” She repeats incredulously, furiously stabbing the oven’s buttons. “I’m about to set the house on fire, there’s no time for slow!” There is, however, plenty of time to set me straight. Trying to point a finger at me while slipping her hand inside a pink kitchen glove, she ends up waving her arms senselessly. “Don’t order me around!”

“As long as you don’t get hurt, set whatever you want on fire. I’ll get the fucking matches.”

The oven blows a cloud of smoke in her face.

“I promise if I bleed on these beautiful floors, I’ll scrub them clean with my own hands.” She coughs, frantic gloved-hands waving to disperse the smoke, the smell.

“You couldn’t clean to save yourself from jail.”

Once the windows are ajar, I make my way to the island, morbidly curious of the damage.

She twists her nose, holding her breath as she reaches for her carbonized victim.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I could learn for you.” The smile she shoots me behind the thin veil of smoke billowing from her hands is an attempt at sinister, thoroughly undermined by the light pink oversized t-shirt, another one she’s slipped from my pile, and smiling red mushroom socks she wears.

“Noooo!” she whines, pouting at whatever she intended to bake like it personally wounded her, rather than the other way around. It’s beyond salvation. Beyond recognition, too. “I really thought I’d finally gotten it, this time.”

I poke at it with a kitchen knife—not ashes, not too far from it. “This time?”

Hands on her waist, Zoe scowls at the oven like it has a personal vendetta against her and is entirely to blame for the baking fiasco. “You don’t wanna know.”

Which means she doesn’t want to tell.

Keeping my laughter trapped inside my chest, I vacate the space as Zoe prepares the incinerated thing for a burial in the trash by maiming and mutilating it. Reinforcements are desperately needed to face the woman in her current predicament.

Wiping the counter, she watches from the corner of her eye as I come back armed with a pastry box. Unable to stop myself, I step close behind her to set it in front of her. “Lucky for you, I’m one step ahead.”

Suspicious, she examines the fancy thing topped with a handle, tied with a silky bow.

Smoke still dominates the room. I want to bury my nose in her hair, find the flowers in that fallen mess that can’t be called a ponytail anymore.

I carefully slide the scrunchie off. When my nails run against her scalp as I tame the wild curls into the tie, a soft sigh escapes her. I move away to wash my hands in the sink, afraid I’ll kiss the nape of her neck—or palm it and pull her to me.

“Go ahead.” I wipe my hands on a dish towel, then swat her butt with it. “It won’t bite.”

She jolts and jumps around sharply.

“I do.” Her irises glint. “Bite.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” The three steps needed to close the distance are slow, giving her time to step away.

She doesn’t.

She goes on her toes to grip the countertop behind her and leans back against the island. The tips of my toes touch hers, my hands massive beside hers on the cool marble as I bend to drop my voice. “Careful, love. Chances are, I’ll enjoy it.”

Our eye contact breaks with my need to watch her take a ragged breath through parted lips.

Behind Zoe, my fingers busy themselves untying the bow of the box until it’s just a strip of silky fabric.

From the corner of her eye, she inspects my ministrations.“It was a pretty bow.”

“Pretty…” I muse, eyes greedy to memorize every detail of her features.

The small dark dot on the curve of her upper lip, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t spend their daydreams watching her mouth.

The raised skin on her forehead, the size of my thumb, a little less angry with every day that passes.

Her eyes that won’t settle on green or blue, a perfect blend of both.

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