A Hamilton Family Christmas - Donna Kauffman Page 0,100

Surprisingly so. “What is that?” he asked, a little dazed, breathing heavily.

“Cakes,” she panted, pushing back the hair that had spilled down out of her bun. Silky, dark brown curls clung to her flushed cheeks. “Ovens.”

“Don’t,” he said instinctively, when she started to gather the tumbled waves and knot them back up. He reached out, as if he had all the right in the world, and brushed aside a damp curl. The tips of his fingers caressed the smooth skin of her cheek. Her lips parted slightly, drawing him to trace his fingers across her bottom lip. He felt the slight tremble there, heard the catch in her throat. And his hunger for her surged right back, with a renewed vengeance.

He took a step toward her, crowding her back against the doors again. He watched her pupils expand, saw her throat work, knew that if he cupped her breasts, her nipples would be rock hard. The thought of peeling that starched linen from her body, and whatever else was beneath it, sent him from launch to orbit in a second.

“Th-the cakes,” she stammered as he slid one hand behind her neck and tilted her mouth up to his again. She side-stepped, half stumbling out of his reach. “They’ll burn.” She scraped her hair back and, with less than steady hands, managed to get it into some semblance of a knot.

“Right,” he said, letting his hand drop. He watched as she darted across the room, then leaned back against the closest worktable. He lowered his chin and closed his eyes with a deep sigh. “Well done, boy-o,” he muttered. “Well done.”

It was her sudden hiss that brought him fully alert again. “What?” He was half across the room before she answered.

“Nothing,” she said tightly, then quickly clattered the cake pans she was juggling onto the waiting cooling racks. She dropped the oven mitts and curled the fingers of one hand into a fist.

The cakes were a rich golden yellow, and their warm, sweet scent made his empty stomach growl. But he was more concerned with the color of her hand.

“Did you burn yourself?” He closed the distance between them. “Let me see, I can—”

She shooed him back as she shifted to the other oven in the smooth, almost graceful manner of someone who had danced between them many, many times. She handled the mitts better and was more purposeful, sliding out one tray at a time and placing them on a different cooling rack.

He didn’t push her about the burn, he just got out of her way. “Do you ever tire of the scent?” he asked. “It’s wonderful, and, along with your fresh roast, quite like paradise would smell, I imagine.”

She didn’t respond. He noted she didn’t look at him, either. He should just let the moment go. Only he didn’t want to. Hence his lame attempt at conversation. He thought her lack of response was because she was busy unloading her ovens, arranging cooling racks, and rearranging the hot racks inside the ovens. But once those tasks were complete and the beeping timer had ceased, she made herself enormously busy arranging the hot pans just so on the cooling racks, then going over to the refrigerated units and burying her head inside one, then another, rooting around ... but coming out empty-handed.

“It’s the one memory of my grandmother’s place, of my childhood, that stays with me,” he persisted. “The scents, I mean.” Then he abruptly snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t like her withdrawing, had wanted to keep her in the moment with him, but he had no earthly idea what had made him blurt out that little tidbit. He didn’t mind sharing the personal stories of those he’d helped over the years. He considered those stories triumphs, business successes. He didn’t share stories about himself. And definitely not about his childhood. Other than surviving it, there was nothing worth mentioning.

In fact, he should take the annoying intrusion of those blasted timers as the signal they surely were. A signal that it wasn’t the time, nor the place, and she was most definitely not the woman to be distracting himself with. He had a very specific job to do. One that, if done properly, would become the single most important thing he’d done to date. Definitely the most meaningful. That opportunity was everything he’d dreamed his future could be. He’d tackled bigger jobs, even more prestigious ones, at least as far as the initial stages of the Hamilton project went.