Page 19 of Only for the Season
“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
My cheeks heat as embarrassment hits me. “I’m fine,” I croak.
His brow wrinkles. “You’re flushed. Maybe—”
My alarm chimes again. My cookies! I push away from him and run toward the kitchen. I fling the door open and rush to the oven. I remember to grab a towel at the last second before removing the cookies.
I place the baking sheet on the prep table before studying the cookies.
“They aren’t burnt. Good. I hate the smell of burnt cookies.”
Jeremy chuckles and I startle. I forgot all about him in my haste to get to my cookies.
“Burn cookies often?”
“Only when I’m distracted by someone desperate for a place to stay because he’s afraid of a little baby.”
He scowls. “Send me an invoice.”
He stomps off. Once the door is closed behind him, I slump against the table. Too close for comfort. Another second in Jeremy’s arms and I would have forgotten all about his wealth and begged him to carry me upstairs and have his wicked way with me.
Not happening. This woman does not get involved with billionaires. Not anymore, at least.
Chapter 7
“Note to self: never touch a woman’s piping bag without permission.” ~ Jeremy
Jeremy
Iyawn as I settle at the dining room table to get some work done. I slept surprisingly well, but not nearly long enough, judging by how the lights on the main street in Smuggler’s Rest aren’t on yet.
While my computer warms up, I glance around Parker’s loft. I have to admit it’s cute. Small but thoughtfully done. Despite being one room, it doesn’t feel cramped.
There are exposed beams overhead, polished smooth and stained the color of driftwood. The kitchen gleams with copper accents and sea-glass cabinet knobs. A ship’s wheel – repurposed as a quirky towel rack – hangs on one wall.
Everything is crisp and clean with throw pillows in mermaid-scale patterns. The craftsmanship is solid – real wood,real stone, not the fake mass-produced crap you usually find in overpriced rentals. This place says:someone built this with their hands. And someone weirder decorated it.
As I work, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon grows stronger. Parker must be baking. Say I’m a caveman but I love the idea of working on my computer while my woman bakes in the kitchen.
Except Parker isn’t my woman and – judging by the hate spitting from her eyes whenever she glances my way – she never will be.
Which is good. I don’t want a woman. They can’t be trusted. Especially when they get a look at my bank account. And who has time for one anyway? Short affairs with women whose names I can barely remember is the way to go.
There’s a crash downstairs and I startle. Shit. My fingers slipped on the keyboard. Where was I? I scan through the lines of code in an effort to figure it out.
But then there’s another crash.
Damnit. I’m never going to figure out what I did with this racket going on. What is Parker doing downstairs? Pounding cookies into submission? Baking shouldn’t be this loud.
I slam my laptop shut and tromp down the stairs. I knock on the door to the bakery, but I don’t wait for her to respond before entering.
“What are you….” I pause when I realize Parker is decorating a cake. And I don’t mean decorating in the way Mom used to. This cake is amazing. There’s a mermaid, a treasure chest, and what appears to be a pirate.
Parker finishes the mermaid’s tail before glancing up at me. “What do you want?”
“I heard some loud bangs.”
“Wasn’t me.” She motions to the cake. “I’ve been too busy to bang around the kitchen.”
