Page 145 of The Christmas Wife

"Yeah," I nod. "I’ll have a bath and then bake, and I’ll feel better then, for sure."

"I don’t think you should be on your own now."

"I’ll be good." I shake my hair back from my face. "Once I start the baking, I’ll lose track of everything."

"But—"

"I’ll be fine." I reach for the phone, "I promise."

"You sure?"

I hunch my shoulders, pull my lips up in a smile. "See?" I point at my face, "I’m good."

"Hmm." Isla peers up at me. Someone calls her name and she looks off camera, "I’m coming Mom." She turns back to me, "Gotta go, doll."

"Right."

"Bye."

I blow her a kiss.

She cuts the call. I place the phone down, then glance around the place. Only one way to deal with this.Fuck the a-hole. Fuck the a-hole. I did fuck him, remember? No, like really fuck him. Gah.I spring up so fast my chair screeches back on its legs. Oopsie. I bring up my play list on the phone, put it on speaker. Then turn on the oven. What should I bake, huh?

Two hours later, I’ve pulled the pies out of the oven, left them to cool on the wire mesh. Also, I’ve chugged down the horrible, almost-vinegary boxed wine, and another bottle of wine.Gah.So not a good idea. My stomach rolls and I grab my middle. Argh, maybe a hot bath will help, huh? I march into the bathroom, run the water, toss in a few bath bombs—chocolate, of course. I light the candles, then head back to the kitchen for the wine… Of course, I’m out. Gah! The corner shop should be open and have wine, huh? Should I? Shouldn’t I? Fuck that. It’s Christmas, after all. I run back to the bathroom, turn off the water, then head over to the shop across the street, pick up one…okay, three bottles of wine, pay the man behind the counter.

"Merry Christmas," he choruses, eyes twinkling.

"And to you." I smile at him, then head back. When I reach home, the door to my apartment is ajar. WTF? My heart begins to race. Is it the same thief who broke into the bakery? Is he back? Gah. I turn to leave. A noise reaches me from the direction of the kitchen. He’s in the kitchen. In the kitchen? My pies? No frigging way am I letting him eat them. I made them for myself.

For me. Moi. I deserve that bloody treat after the last few days I’ve had. I glance around for a weapon. What can I use? I curl my fingers around the bottle of wine, push open the door to my apartment, then creep past the living room. I reach the doorway to the kitchen, pause. His back is to me. His broad shoulders are clad in a black, long-sleeved Henley that clings to the planes of his back which flex, move, ripple with each of his movements. His narrow waist, that tight butt, those powerful thighs outlined in his jeans. He blocks out the sight of the dining table... Where I'd left the pies to cool. His legs are spread apart and the muscles of his triceps flex as he jerks his arm back-forth-back... What the hell? He can't be doing what I think he is. Is he? I take a step forward. He freezes. Shoots me a glance over his shoulder.

"You?" I swallow, "What are you doing?"

42

Weston

"What the hell do you think?" I growl at her, hold her gaze.Don't let her look down; don't allow her to see what the hell you've gotten into here.Caught with your dick in a pie...and by the woman you're in love with...? Hold the fuck on there. Firstly, that isn’t a metaphor—being caught with my dick in a pie, I mean. And I know what you're thinking, and fuck, but I can promise it wasn't inspired by a certain, uh, notorious movie. I mean, I am past the stage of being pimply-faced and ready to shag everything that moves...because I only want to be inside one woman, her... Or, uh! A pie baked by her. Bloody fuck, this is a shit show.

"I... I am not sure what you're doing here?" She takes a step forward, and every muscle in my body solidifies... Except uh, a particular part of me that's throbbing inside the sweet, moist, center of a certain dessert that was baked by her. I mean, can you blame me? Peter had driven me here, and I'd told him to leave, confident that I was spending the night here. Hey a man can hope, right? It is Christmas, after all. I'd walked in here, and theentire place had smelled festive... and of her—that sweet sugary scent of hers mixed with the scent of apple pie, which happens to be my favorite, and all of it had gone to my head... Or rather, to my groin, and she hadn't been around, so I'd done the next logical thing. I'd reached for the pie she'd baked, buried myself in its center. Not that it’s a replacement... Far from it, but needs must and all that. It's what she's reduced me to, a man...standing in front of a woman he loves—no, no, no, not love, never love, in lust—yeah, that's better;a man in lust, standing in front of his woman with his dick caught in a pie, that she'd baked.

Fuck.

This is all her fucking fault.

I glare at her.

She pales. Her chin wobbles and she bites down on her lower lip, and fuck, if my dick doesn’t jump again; inside the goddamn pie I hold with my left hand, in a position that if she came around and saw, it would be very clear what I am up to.

"Don't come closer," I snap. Bloody hell, that's a first—me asking a woman to stay away from me. Not that it matters, of course, because she sidles closer. Bloody woman, can never do what she's told.

"Stop," I growl. "Stay where you are."

She frowns. "My apartment." She huffs, "I can do what I want."

"Wrong."

She blinks. "I rent this flat, you ass."

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