Page 17 of A Not So Merry Rescue
I trail behind. “Why not something premade? A candy bar?Ice cream, maybe? What’s the obsession with cooking something?”
He turns around, not expecting I’m following so close. He steadies me by my shoulders so I don’t topple over, and electricity buzzes around us. Can he feel it, too?
“It’s gotta be something warm. Brownies take less than thirty minutes. Unless you’re too tired and want to head back to bed . . .”
He dangles the threat in front of me. Not so much a threat as an invitation.
“Ironically, when I can’t sleep, I bake, too.”
His eyes widen. “No shit?”
“No.” I don’t resist the urge to roll my eyes. “When I can’t sleep, I stay in my bed, like normal people. Watch TV. Read.”Furiously write chapters and get lost in a book,I don’t admit aloud. It feels like forever since I’ve done that. I kinda miss it. Maybe tonight’s brownies will kick-start something in me, unlock a piece of the writer’s block mystery.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Just for that, no brownies for you. You’re dismissed.” He waves a hand in my direction before heading back to the kitchen. His tone implies anything but, and the way he spoke “you’re dismissed,” beckons me toward the kitchen.
He’s got the pantry door open, which isn’t so much more than a bunch of neatly organized shelves of food. He pulls out flour, cocoa, and other ingredients, lining them up on the counter. Next, he moves to the fridge, grabbing out the eggs. Lastly, he reaches into a high cabinet for a few more items. My feet rooted to the ground beneath them, I’m shocked.
“You’re making them from scratch?” Not only is he baking in the middle of the night, he’s not using a box mix?
“Only cheaters use a box mix, Willafred.” How he reads my mind and his use of my full name stir something in my chest, the three syllables conjuring up feelings long ago buried. His eyes blink rapidly a few times. “Are you a cheater?”
Another taunt, this time, raspier, more implication of other things.
Hell if I can figure out why I answer, “No.”
Which is a lie if we’re talking about brownies. I only use a box. When the occasion calls for me to make brownies, which is rare. I’m partial to Ghirardelli, a little more upscale than the other ones.
He nods, accepting my answer as if it’s gospel. “You wanna help?”
“I’ll certainly help eat them.Afterthey’re baked.”
He reflects on my answer for a moment before his top lip quirks up. “Ah. You’re one of those.” He doesn’t indicate what “those” implies, but I’m guessing he’s probably not wrong. No doubt I’ve been accused of worse.
One shoulder rises. “You’re better off. Especially if you want them to be good.”
“Seems like there’s a dare in that statement,” the sexy man goads.
“In no way did I imply any such thing.” I cross my arms over my chest, grateful to still be wearing a bra.
Why my mind goes there is surprising.
Probably because I can’t reconcile the different parts of Beckett’s personality I’ve gleaned in the few hours since he came to rescue me. Most importantly, his sexiness.
Beckett moves from where he stands behind the counter, sauntering to where I stand at the edge of the kitchen, a mask of emotions on his face. I’m not so much scared as intrigued.
Wondering what he’s going to do.
Contemplating how I’m going to react.
My breath hitches the closer he gets, temptation exuding off him.
So much temptation.
What is it about this man getting me hot and bothered? Beyond his external attraction, there’s so much more.
Perhaps being stuck in this middle of nowhere cabin with a stranger has appeal.
6
