Page 16 of Perfect Pact

I gasp. “I don’t have a muffin top!”

“Whoa!” Dusty holds up his hands in front of him as he slides between me and the car. “Beth, you really need to get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Me?” I spin around and watch him as he walks up to the house. “You’re the one who got out of the car looking like you just stepped out of anAmerican Cowboymagazine and ate my muffin.”

Dusty stops mid-step and turns around. “That good, huh? And your muffin, darlin’? I think you mean ‘a’ muffin.”

Darlin’?

Who in the hell does he think he is? Aside from some sexed-up wannabe cowboy with muffin crumbs on his hands. I shake off the thought and get back to what really matters the most: taking something that doesn’t belong to him.

“A muffin? It’s plural, Dusty. You ate two muffins, and not even all of them! You, Dusty Jacobs, are a muffin murderer.”

His perfectly sculpted body shakes with laughter. “You gonna make a citizen’s arrest?”

Jokes for days, this guy.

This whole situation has gotten out of control. I don’t even know why I’m mad over muffins anymore. Now that my debt will be paid off, I won’t have to worry about how I’m going to afford my next meal.Old habits do die hard.

“Maybe I am.” I flick the top of the lid open. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around to find out.”

“Why?” He arches his brow in a challenge.

“I warned you.” I pull out one of the muffin bottoms and chuck it at him. He doesn’t duck. He stands there, a willing target—a target I miss by a mile.

“Lookin’ for the bullseye, Beth?” Dusty looks down his front, then over his shoulder to the dirt-covered muffin.

“Screw you, Jacobs! Maybe this will shut you up.”

I pull out another muffin, and this time, I don’t aim for his so-called bullseye, but for mine: his mouth.

I miss.Again.

He smirks.Again.

I’m pissed.

I reach inside the box one more time and grab the only muffin that hasn’t been touched. I could throw it at him, but I haven’t had much luck, so there’s really only one way to handle this.

Dropping the box, I run toward him, armed with my weapon of choice: a blueberry muffin. Not the bottom. Not the top. The whole fucking thing.

“Take that.” I smash it in his face. Not because he’s the muffin murderer, but because the jerk acts like he can ride into my life on a horse he doesn’t even have yet and save the day. Not going to happen.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

“You done yet?” Dusty mumbles as he stands there and takes it.

“Nope.” I rub the muffin in so good, this guy is going to be oozing blueberries out of his pores for weeks.

“How about now?”

“Yup.” I back away, letting the wrapper fall to the ground.

“Good.” Dusty reaches up and runs a hand down his face so he can see. “Do you feel better?”

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