Page 53 of Bookshop Cinderella

“I’m impressed. Keep doing that and Delia won’t need me anymore. She’ll just hire you.”

“If she does, you’ll be far too busy to care. Once she returns from Rome, you’ll be inundated with invitations, and I shall probably not even see you.”

The way he felt right now, that prospect seemed heavenly and hellish in equal measure.

“It’s not as if you don’t have plenty of distractions of your own,” she said and took a bite of the soufflé. “This is delicious!” she cried around a mouthful of pilaf.

He grinned. “You needn’t sound so surprised. If Escoffier heard you, he’d be insulted by your lack of faith in his abilities.”

“It’s only that rice is usually so boring. But this isn’t at all.” She took another bite, savoring the combination of rice, dried fruits, and seasonings with such pleasure that Max’s grin faded and arousal awakened inside him.

He looked away, forcing his attention to his own plate, and as they ate, his mind searched desperately for a new topic, something safely neutral that would keep him on the straight and narrow.

“How are the renovations to your shop coming along?” he asked at last.

“The weather has been fine, so everything finally dried out. They painted the flat, and next week, they’ll paint the shop. The week after that, the floors will be sanded and waxed and the wallpaper put up. The book restorers tell me they will be finished around the same time, so I can start moving back in.”

“Just remember you’re on holiday. By the way, you haven’t asked me to procure any more tickets for you. Please tell me you’re taking some time to enjoy yourself?”

“Anna has been very busy. We’re now in the midst of the season, so she’s had many confectionery orders to fulfill and hasn’t been able to come out with me. But I am enjoying myself, I promise you. I’ve been to the opening of the Royal Exhibition, the British Museum, and Madame Tussauds. I’ve even done a bit of shopping.”

Max had been keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his food, but he couldn’t resist a glance at her from beneath his lashes, and when his attention caught on the shadowy cleft between her breasts, his throat went dry, and his body began to burn. “Shopping, eh?” he managed, reaching for his wine. “What did you buy?”

“Some novels at Hatchards. And Delia’s suite has an enormous bathtub, so I bought some lovely bergamot soaps at Fortnum & Mason. I had a lovely soak before I came tonight.”

Max choked on his wine.

So much for safe, neutral topics, he thought as the arousal he’d been trying to suppress began spreading through his body. Desperate, he turned away and flipped open the picnic basket. “I’d better serve you some dessert, or we’ll have no time left tonight to do any dancing.”

He pulled a paperboard box from the basket, cut a generous square of baklava for her, garnished her plate with a few dates and figs, added a fork, and slid the plate across to her, resolved that by the time she finished dessert, he’d have snuffed out the desire flaming in his body.

She picked up her fork and took the first bite. “Oh, my God, that’s so good,” she groaned, closing her eyes in such an ecstasy of pleasure that Max’s resolve fell completely to pieces and all he wanted was to come around that table, haul her into his arms, and kiss her senseless.

“Glad you like it,” he said, telling himself firmly to stay on his side of the table. “Have a sweet tooth, do you?”

She nodded, taking another bite of baklava. “I’m terrible. If you put a tea tray in front of me, I will always choose the sweetest, most decadent tea cakes on it.” She paused and took a sip of champagne, ate a date, and nibbled on another piece of baklava. “One of the greatest trials of my life is that I don’t put sugar in my tea anymore.”

That puzzled him—a petty distraction, but he’d take it. “If you like sugar in your tea, why not have it?”

“Sugar’s so expensive, I don’t use it anymore.”

The reminder of how close to the bone she lived while he was surrounded by more wealth than he could spend in a lifetime might have given his conscience a smack were it not for the arousal in his body. He appreciated grimly that if this sort of hedonistic pleasure was her usual response to sweets, she’d have Ronald Anstruther and every other young man in London clamoring to take tea and cake with her every day of the week.

She savored each bite of her dessert with maddening slowness. At last, she set down her fork and pushed back her plate, but any relief he might have felt was quashed when her tongue darted out to lick the sticky vestiges of honey from her lips.

Max jerked upright, smothering an oath.

The sound made her pause, and she suddenly noticed that he hadn’t served any baklava for himself. “Don’t you want any dessert?”

Not that kind, a devil inside him whispered.

Max shook his head. “I don’t care much for sweet things.”

“Really?” She shook her head, clearly confounded. “I’ve never encountered a sweet I didn’t like.”

“I prefer savories,” he said firmly, tearing his gaze from her honeyed lips. “Scotch eggs, you know, or caviar.”

She gave him a skeptical look, as if he were an escapee from Bedlam, and despite the precarious state he was in, he couldn’t help a grin.

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