Page 12 of Cream and Punishment
“That sounds more like a rich person thing than an old person thing.”
“Fair point.” He flipped through one of my regency romances. “Pickleball?”
I furrowed my brows as images of someone swatting at pickles with a baseball bat came to mind. “What on earth is a pickleball?”
He chuckled. A low, intoxicating sound that cranked up the heat in the room by a few degrees all by itself. “I believe it’s kind of like a wiffle ball.”
I nodded, sagely, as if I had the faintest idea what a wiffle ball was. Probably British, if I had to guess. Wiffle ball. Wimbledon. Same thing.
“Pickleball thesport, however, is kind of like the love child of ping pong and tennis,” he continued. “Supposedly, it’s great for beginners and the elderly.”
“Beginnersandthe elderly, huh? Maybe I finally found a sport I could handle after all.”
Maybe. Probably not. Sports and I didn’t exactly get along.
He flashed a smile, though he scarcely looked up from the book in his hands. “If you ever try it out, let me know how you like it. I’ve been trying to find hobbies.”
“You don’t have any hobbies?”
“I enjoy working out for my mental and physical health.” He hesitated before continuing, staring at a box of DVDs to avoid eye contact. “I’m trying to figure out what I…like. If that makes any sense.”
Not really, but I wasn’t about to let him know that.
I added another swirl of frosting. “I imagine it’s hard to have certain hobbies with a work schedule like yours.”
He hummed noncommittally, his attention squarely on the books again. Then his voice took on a playful tone. “Ooh, this one has some bodice ripping.” He grinned mischievously and winked—winked! —at me. “So scandalous, Dekker.”
Oh, hazelnuts and cherry pie. I practically threw my piping bag down in my rush. If it hadn’t been for the belt-snake, I doubted I’d ever moved as quickly as I did to snatch the book from him.
Not that I was ashamed of my reading selection but thinking about my steamier romance books while being in the same room as Max had my blood heating for all the wrong reasons. If I didn’t nip this in the bud, every book hero would look like him from here on out, no matter how the author described them. That was the last thing I needed.
He’d moved it a few inches higher while I’d scurried over, straining to continue reading it before I could wrestle it out of his grasp. “It’s really starting to get good now.”
Curse his long legs. He had a good six inches on me, minimum.
“Gimme. That,” I huffed, finally grabbing hold of the book with both hands. I bumped into him in the process, bouncing off until our chests were inches apart and I had to stand on my tiptoes.
We simultaneously froze at the contact.
He smelled like what I imagined testosterone personified would—spicy, savory, and like he could fight a bear single-handedly and win. It was too much for my frail, romance-less nerves to withstand, but nothing short of the sweet release of death would pry that paperback from my fingers.
His eyes darted to my legs, where my T-shirt had pulled higher over my thighs. My running shorts weren’t exposed yet, which actually made it worse. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat in a way that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it was. He looked away, released the book, and stepped back.
We stood there for a painfully awkward minute, looking anywhere but at each other. My skin crawled from embarrassment. I’d nearlyclimbedhim, and for what? If I was trying to convince him to forgive all my debts, I was doing a horrible job of it.
Here, let me assault youandruin your life.
He started to say something at the exact moment I blurted, “I’m wearing pants.”
His eyes flicked back to my legs before fixating on a spot somewhere above my left shoulder. “Okay?”
“Under my shirt,” I continued, apparently determined to prolong our suffering. I shifted uneasily. The tension in the room felt thick as cream. I’d made things weird. Again. “I’m wearing shorts. I’m not…I, uh…sorry.”
“I think I should be the one apologizing.” He smiled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what came over me.”
I cracked a sly smile. “It’s okay to admit you might have found your new favorite genre. Your secret is safe with me.”
His smile widened, genuine this time. “Oh, good.”
