Page 24 of So Close

The look that flashed over his face made Auburn’s belly heat. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, but she’d seen it. And she wanted to bring it back, somehow, and keep it there.

“Do you share the biscuit recipe?” Aria asked. “I can never get mine to come out.”

“I’m putting together a Beachcrest cookbook,” Auburn told her.

Aria clapped. “That’s so cool!”

“We’re going to give the ebook free to everyone who stays here and sell the paperback online. It should be out by Christmas. If you gave your email address when you booked the reservation you’ll automatically get a copy without having to do anything else.”

“Oh, my, God, really?” Aria said. “Su-weet. When you’re ready to sell the paperback, let us know and we’ll pimp you on social media.”

“Wow, thank you so much.”

Auburn’s peripheral vision was sharp, or she might have missed Trey reaching for the biscuit.

She turned in time to catch him in the act of taking another bite, and their eyes met. She raised her eyebrows.

“What?”

She took the biscuit from him, buttered it liberally, and handed it back. She could feel his eyes on her face the whole time.

“If I risk my arteries like this, you have to do something for me.”

“That biscuit is its own reward.”

“For an early death? You need to look at my plans for the retirement community.”

“Then you have to eat bacon the next time I serve it.” She met the challenge in his gray gaze, unflinching, and she felt something unspool in the pit of her belly.

“Don’t push your luck.”

He edged his chair away from the table and got up.

She turned away, but she saw, out of the corner of her eye, when his hand snaked out and snatched the biscuit.

12

When Auburn came into the kitchen, he was up to his elbows in hot soapy water.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“The dishes.”

“You don’t have to do that. And especially not in your nice clothes.”

“I know I don’t have to.” But his mama hadn’t raised him to let someone else do all the cooking and then walk away from the mess. Even if the someone was currently doing everything in her power to make his life difficult.

“It’s an inn. You’re a guest.”

“Actually,” he said pointedly, “I’m the owner.”

The softness that had come over her at the sight of him doing dishes vanished, and she straightened up. “So this is about asserting control. Of course.” She crossed her arms.

It had been, at least a little—but it still galled him to be called out on it. “This is about doing the right thing.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “At least let me get you an apron.”

He raised an eyebrow.

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