Page 75 of Imperfect Arrangement
I hear the question. I see his lips move. But my brain is stuck on a loop, cataloging every inch of him. He’s breathtaking, the kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel fair. Like an artist took their time crafting him, pouring every ounce of skill and attention into getting every single detail just right.
As if Raymond somehow knows the riot going on in my head, his voice cuts through the fog. This time when he says my name, it’s low and deliberate, the deep timbre settling into every nerve ending I possess.
“Willow.”
My eyes snap up to his face, and I’m met with a slow, lazy smile curling his lips. “Do you know it’s past midnight?” he asks, casting a quick glance behind me at the disaster zone I’ve created on the kitchen counter.
I don’t reply. Actually, Ican’treply.
If in this given moment, Raymond asked my name, I might struggle. This is too much masculinity for a girl who hasn’t seen any action in along, longtime.
I force myself to look away, to breathe, to remember that I’m a grown woman and not some hormonal teenager seeing abs for the first time.
“I was trying to make a test cake for Quill’s birthday,” I manage finally, though my voice comes out a little too fast. “And you should be grateful it was a test, because if this were the real one, we’d be facing charges for accidental poisoning.”
His lips twitch and he takes another step closer, the scent of cedarwood and lavender wrapping around me, filling every available space.
“What’s the real problem, Firefly?” His voice dips lower, softer, and then he gently tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
There’s so much I want to say.
You being shirtless.
You standing this close.
You being the leading star in my every intrusive thought these days.
But of course, none of that can come out, so I settle on the truth. “I don’t know how to bake.” The words wobble out, shaky and raw. He’s the one without a shirt, yet somehow, I’m the one standing here feeling completely exposed.
Raymond takes another step forward, bringing him dangerously close. His body cages mine against the counter as he leans in, and the smallest brush of contact sends my pulse into a tailspin.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
My mouth is too close to his ear, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he leans in further, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. My breath catches, and my eyes close instinctively, my hands curling into fists at my sides as if that’ll somehow steady me. Then I hear it—the soft scrape of the cake base being lifted.
“Don’t touch it!” I shove at him, my hands landing squarely on his chest. A mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.
He doesn’t budge and neither do my hands.
Oh God. He’s solid. All muscle. Like someone carved him out of stone.
“I’m just trying to figure out what went wrong,” he murmurs.
A moment later, he straightens, and I drop my hands like they’ve been scorched. Because touching Raymond like this is wildly inappropriate.
“You used too little rising agent,” he announces, as if this is common knowledge.
I blink. “When…when did you become a cake master?”
His grin is maddeningly smug. “I’m the son of the woman who owns the largest cake chain in the country, so I know a thing or two.”
Right. Of course. Why didn’t I connect those dots?
My stomach drops. “Your mom is bringing a cake for Quill’s party, isn’t she?”
What the hell were you thinking, Wills?
Hope Teager turns every kid’s birthday into a dream, and here I was thinking I’d serve this monstrosity that shouldn’t even be touched with a hazmat suit on.
