Page 40 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

Blake raises his brows. “How so?”

“We sleep in different rooms.” I keep my voice in a careful monotone, not wanting Blake to drag more information from me than necessary. “She’s as busy as I am, so we barely have time to interact.”

Except for that one night when I could almost swear that Charlie was coming on to me.

There’s no use talking about it, though. Or even thinking about it. It happened three days ago, and I’ve barely seen her since. Hell, there’s nothing much to it, especially when you consider that it had ended awkwardly. Or normally, if I think about it. Charlie closing up faster than a clam and backing away for absolutely no reason.

Got to say, I’m getting sick of it.

That night was torture. Charlie’s hands on me, somehow a million times better than it felt when we were teens. Her palms brushing past my chest, fingers scraping my nipple…

What I wouldn’t have given to throw her down on the floor and explore every damn inch of her.

But I made a promise. I knew being around her was going to be hell. And yet, I went for it.

Maybe not total hell.

I look down at the menu, and a reluctant smile tugs on my lips. Our conversation about food did feel good. A bitlike old times. Me helping Charlie with a problem. She did consent to me helping her out with the menu. Her shutting down at the end of the night doesn’t change that.

Our food arrives. It’s good. Could be better, though. I glance at Blake for his opinion, but he’s already deep in conversation with our other teammates. In fact, all of them are now paired up, discussing the last game. But I’ve got other things on my mind.

Maybe I can get started on helping Charlie right now.

Rising to my feet, I look around for the nearest server. “Where’s Charlie?” I ask.

There’s a brief look of confusion on his face that disappears almost instantly. “Back in the kitchen. Probably trying to close up for the night.”

“Where are you going?” Blake calls after me, looking almost wary.

I flash him a smile. “To check on mywife.” The server’s jaw goes slack instantly. “Take me to her.” I chuckle.

Waving goodbye to Blake, I follow the stunned man. This time, he doesn’t take me under the counter, instead he slips into a small corridor. He nods toward a door and disappears.

I open it and walk in. The space is instantly recognizable as part of Charlie’s kitchen. Only that this room seems to be an offshoot of the main one. She’s alone. Her hair is tied up in a neat bun, wearing a fitted shirt and a long flowy skirt that reaches her ankles. And she’s making—or at leasttryingto make—cinnamon buns.

She’s in the midst of a huge mess, and I can spot two discarded trays with the pastry. One of them has all the dough burned to a crisp. Still, something about the image makes my groin tingle with need.

Everything Charlie does makes me want to ravish her.Even messing up my favorite treat. Maybe it’s for the best that she keeps shutting down.

Makes it easier to keep my promise.

She looks around the second I walk in. “Ken,” she says, clearly startled. “How are you here?”

“The guys decided to get a bite to eat here. Wasn’t even my idea. You’re getting more popular than you know.”

“Well, then,” she says, in a more relaxed tone, “I better learn how to make these, and fast. Someone ate here and made a video about it online. Said our cinnamon buns are the bomb. And I can’t figure out how to make a good batch without ruining it.” She nods morosely to the two discarded trays, before looking down at the mess in front of her, a new batch of dough she’s trying to mix.

My lips are twitching much like Blake’s right now.

“I’m going to kill you if you laugh at me,” she says, waving a finger in my face. “I know I suck at it, but you did imply that with practice, I’ll get better. I’m putting in the effort. Downloaded a dozen recipes this morning, and I’ve been working on it since. Ireallywant to figure it out before going home tonight.”

“Oh.”

Charlie’s been coming home later than usual over the past three days. I thought she was avoiding me. It’s only now that I realize she must’ve been trying to work on her recipes since our last conversation.

“No mocking.” I raise my hands in surrender. “Only…I think I can figure out what was wrong with your previous batches.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “I left the burned ones in the oven for too long,” she says, pointing at the tray. “And for thatone…” she nods toward the second tray, loaded with bumpy looking rolls. “I probably forgot to add enough milk or something.”

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