Honey Pie (Cupcake Club) - By Donna Kauffman Page 0,30

think anyone would be handling them but me. Just—here, I’ll hand stuff out to you, okay?”

He backed up so she could step in, and he noticed her fragrance for the first time. It smelled like . . . sandalwood. Or something like that. Woodsy, earthy, with a bit of spice to it. Nothing flowery or feminine. He thought again about how he’d misjudged her based on a name. Seemed he was making a habit of it. He had to admit, the scent suited her. A little offbeat, a little bohemian, and unexpectedly sultry.

“Um, here?”

He snapped out of it and realized she was juggling a box from the car toward his waiting hands. He took the box.

“Not fragile,” she said.

“Then stack another one on top.”

She dragged out another one and carefully put it on top.

Careful not to touch him, either, he noted.

“Fragile.”

He said nothing, just made his way through the open bay door to the back of his truck and set both boxes in the open bed, then slid the top one off and tucked it up by the cab. He went back inside and stood behind her, ready for the next batch, trying like hell not to notice there was actually a very fine curve to her backside, where the baggy shorts had pulled snug as she reached farther into the car’s interior.

He was still trying like hell not to notice when she backed out and swung around with several stacked boxes in her arms, only to smack them right into his chest. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d come back. I didn’t hear you.” The boxes bobbled wildly. “Fragile!”

He had no choice but to grab her arm with one hand and use the other to trap the boxes between their bodies until she steadied herself.

Her eyes shot wide as his hand wrapped around her arm, and her mouth opened on a silent gasp.

“I’ve got them,” he told her, keeping his gaze level on hers, hoping to keep her from going into . . . whatever the hell state she’d gone into the last time he’d touched her. “It’s okay.” He heard the edge to his words and tempered his annoyance, which was really just a cover for concern. He didn’t want to deal with another one of her episodes, but didn’t want to see her deal with one, either. “I got it,” he repeated calmly and quietly when she simply stared at him, seemingly frozen in place.

“I’m sorry.” The words sounded strangled. She didn’t move or let go of the boxes.

So he didn’t—couldn’t—let go of her, though he was sorely tempted. If he’d thought her eyes were spooky before, something in them now downright gave him the chills.

“Let me go,” she said, the words tight, almost forced, but with an edge of desperation.

“Can’t do that, sugar, until you let go of the boxes. I’ve got ’em.”

She continued to stare at him, her gaze boring straight into his.

“How ’bout on the count of three,” he said, wishing like hell whatever it was she was suffering from didn’t tug at him. But damn it all, it did. “One . . . two—”

She started trembling, then abruptly jerked her arm free.

If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he’d have dropped the boxes. He almost did, anyway. With his other hand under them, he managed to steady them, but his attention wasn’t on the boxes. It was on her sheet-white face, her eyes wide with terror or horror as she stepped back, only to bang up against the car. He couldn’t have said why, but he was pretty damn certain if the car hadn’t been there to block her retreat, she’d have turned and taken off at a dead run.

Operating on instinct or his own brand of sudden onset insanity, he shoved the boxes on top of her car and shifted his body—without touching her—so she was boxed in. Not with the intent of scaring her, but with the intent of making her feel secure.

“All right, darlin’. It’s okay. You’re fine. It’s all good, sugar, you’ll be just fine.” He talked to her much the same way he’d talked to Lolly when she’d been anxious and scared coming out of the anesthetic after her first surgery. Gently, but firmly. “Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

He wished he understood why she went from normal chick to crazy chick like she did. It obviously had something to do with coming into contact with people. Not dogs, apparently. She’d spoken quite naturally