Page 6 of Imagine Me and You

“You wouldn’t.”

She arched a brow and took the bowl out of the sink, lowering it slightly. “You don’t think?”

“Sam,” he growled.

“Grrr. Jace is mad.”

“I will put you on the hide-a-bed.” He took a step toward her, his scent attacking her like a sexy beacon of temptation again.

She swallowed hard, tossing her head back, ignoring the lingering tingle in her lips. “Bastard. You have a bed with a down pillowtop and you would be put me on that abomination?”

He took another step toward her, his dark eyes clashing with hers, sending a little zing of heat through her. It was all that deferred pleasure business. This level of not-being-able-to-ignore-Jace’s-hotness wasn’t normal.

“If you let your dog lick my dish...” His tone was so menacing, his gaze so intense, and the tension in her chest was so tight...she snickered.

“That sounds like the world’s sickest euphemism.”

His lips twitched, as if he was trying very, very hard to hold back a smile. Or evidence of amusement of any kind over her shenanigans.

“Samantha, do not let your dog lick the bowl. And I’ll let you do the dishes.”

“Hollow victory, but I’ll take it.” She lifted the bowl back up out of Poppy range and turned to the sink. “You can do the breakfast dishes.”

“Great. I’m going to go take a shower. Pick whichever room you want, but the dog cannot sleep on a bed.”

“Fine. Fine. Good night, Jace the Grumpy Cowboy.”

“Good night, Sam.”

He turned and walked out of the room and she just kept washing dishes. She didn’t even look at his ass.

Normal. Everything was back to normal. The kiss had inspired a bit of temporary insanity, but it was over now.

Totally over.

The next month was going to be just fine.

Three

Samantha crankedup the radio and ladled some more pancake batter onto the griddle, singing the octave above Blake Shelton as she got in touch with her hillbilly bone. Poppy barked along in no particular key.

Jace’s kitchen was so big she actually had to take steps to the fridge to get more milk for her batter. In her old apartment she’d just kind of stretched to get everything. This was heaven.

When her bakery started getting featured on the Travel Channel and Food Network, ’cuz hell yeah it would, then she’d get rich and famous and buy a house with a huge kitchen. Testing recipes would be way more fun in here.

She started to do a little dance, using the batter-covered ladle as a microphone and giving an on cue “Yeehaw” as the song commanded.

“Samantha, what the f?—”

Then she flung her arms wide, a motion started because of the music and made bigger by the very stern sound of Jace’s voice, and came up against something solid, the pancake batter making a wet splat as it came into contact with its target.

She turned, her eyes wide and level with Jace’s throat. And the spray of raw batter that started between his pecs and spread out like a gooey star.

She snorted a laugh and quickly took a step back, clapping her hands, one of which was still holding the ladle, over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said through her fingers.

Little clumps of uncooked pancake tangled in his dark chest hair, which got her noticing the chest hair. Which got her following the thin line of it that ran down the center of his abs and to his very low jeans and...oh my.

She looked back up into very dark, very angry eyes.

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