Page 57 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“Honey, let me help you. Leonie is safe. She’s just upset I stopped blowing raspberries on her belly. We need to get you inside.”

Then I’m upside down, knocking me half back into reality.

Maddock swept me off my feet and now holds me in a fireman carry. My long hair splays toward the ground as he marches up the steps and into the kitchen. Not going to lie, I have a good view of his backside. He works out. Probably hits leg day hard. Also, I can feel the ripple of his firm muscles under his T-shirt.

So I don’t let myself get too carried away, I protest, “What are you doing? Put me down.”

Leonie sits in her bouncer and goes quiet as if trying to puzzle out what’s happening. From my unusual position, I wave at her and play peek-a-boo around Maddock’s side. She giggles.

He says, “I’ll put you down if you promise me you’ll eat something.”

I start to protest, but my stomach growls. All I had today were two glasses of sweet tea. I can thank myself for the free refill, but not for skipping two meals.

An upside-down pastry box sits on the counter. Scratch that. I’m the one who is still upside down. With his arm still wrapped around my legs, Maddock flips open the lid with his free hand and passes me a muffin.

“What are you doing?” I’m not sure where to put my arms and fight the urge to wrap them around him. I bet his stomach is tightly etched with abs of steel.

Mine is empty.

He waves the muffin by my face. “It’s a cinnamon apple streusel muffin.”

My nose twitches at the delicious scent, but I sling my arms in front of my chest. “Ew. Gross.”

“Ew. Gross. Like kissing. Is that what you think?”

“Absolutely?” I lie.

“Applelutely?”

My smile cracks.

He asks, “How about a beignet bun?”

“Bag nut?” I almost laugh despite myself. “It’s pronouncedben yay.”

“Okay, Pancake Queen. How about I make you some flapjacks?”

“Pancakes and flapjacks aren’t the same as mispronouncing beignet. Those are two different foods. I’m merely correcting your phonetics.”

He takes a sugar cookie with icing and little autumn leaf sprinkles out of the box. “Can I tempt you with this?”

He’s tempting with his thick hair that begs for me to run my hands into it. His stubble-covered cheeks. Full lips ... Even though I can’t see that side of him from this position, his image is permanently painted in my head.

I seal my mouth and shake my head from side to side.

As if more fatigued by my stubborn refusal to do what he says, than by holding me over his shoulder, he shifts his weight. Then I hear a crunch.

That rascal is eating the cookie.

Around a mouthful, he says, “Mmm. It’s good. Are you sure you don’t want a bite?”

“Quite.”

“Why are you so difficult?” he asks.

If I were standing, I’d swing at him. But I’m tired and feeling weak, my thoughts and vision remain a blur. Instead, I inwardly stagger as if that very question struck a blow. My voice is small when I answer, “Actually, I don’t know.”

Because I don’t want help or handouts?

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