only shock people so many times before it becomes commonplace.”
I want to laugh, but I press my lips together instead. “You can’t say it, can you?”
“Say what?”
“You want to call me an asshole, but you settle on insults like turd nugget and butt-flavor.” I lean toward her, satisfaction filling me when her mouth parts slightly and her breath comes faster.
She’s not unaffected by me; I know this, and I’m glad. I can’t be the only one fighting this attraction. My own breathing is picking up speed, heart thumping a little faster. What is it about this woman that makes me want to break all my own rules?
“Some of us have manners. Were you raised in a barn?”
“Close enough.”
My eyes flick to the smear of flour on her collarbone. “You have flour on you. Maybe you should wear that apron you left over there before you start baking. I think that’s a health code regulation.”
She groans in frustration and steps away, using my comment as an excuse to get away from me, likely, reaching for the garment. “I hate you.”
“Good.” Because I’m supposed to be keeping her at arm’s length and not doing…whatever it is I’m doing right now.
She’s blushing. Flustered. She grabs the apron and yanks it off the hook to send the eggs flying.
Chapter Eight
Cooking and baking are both physical and emotional therapy.
–Mary Berry
Scarlett
Eggs. He put eggs in my apron and now they’re broken, shells littering the floor and speckled over my legs and shoes.
Startled, I freeze in shock, blinking at the egg carnage and then up at Guy.
He smiles.
“You…you…turd burglar!” I don’t know what else to say. Guy Chapman played a silly prank on me. And now he’s smiling.
Like actual smiling. With his lips and even teeth. They’re nice teeth, straight and white and . . hell’s bells!
He never smiles that big. Ever. The most I’ve ever witnessed is a slight tilt of the lips. And it’s a good thing because he has a dimple in his left cheek and his grin is more divine than tiramisu straight from Rome. Guy always has a certain magnetism, even when he’s just standing there scowling, but an actual real to life smile might actually power the mixer on the counter—no electricity needed.
“Can you not swear?” he asks. “You know you’re a grown adult and no one’s here to reprimand you.” The dimple is gone, disappeared along with most of my brain cells.
I can’t believe he . . .
“Ugh!” I grab a piece of the gelatinous material from my shirt and throw it at him, but it doesn’t go very far. The goop slips beneath my fingers and leaves a sticky trail up my arm.
Which makes him smile again. Damn him. Anger fills me with resolve.
I step in his direction, rubbing my hand in the excess egg on my person and then wiping the wetness right across his smug face.
He stares at me in shock, the eggy mess a smear of shiny substance across his cheek and chin.
In an ineffectual attempt to hide my mirth, I cup my hands over my mouth and snort into them, which just wipes more of the egg on my own face, but there’s no helping it.
His frozen shock doesn’t last long. He steps toward me, coming for me even as I back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
Yelping, I try to escape his retribution, but my truck is smaller than a prison cell. He easily boxes me in against the counter and then, to my everlasting shock, rubs his egg-covered face against mine.
His cheek is scratchy and the egg is wet. The combination has me shrieking and laughing and struggling to get away, but his arms are like warm steel bands caging me in place.
The door slams open and we both freeze, halting mid-entanglement, and turn our heads as one toward the interruption.
Fred stands in the doorway, disposable coffee containers in each hand. It’s going to be a long night and I had sent her off for reinforcements because we were out.
Guy steps away from me, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. I straighten and clear my throat, hastily using a dry spot on my apron to wipe my own face.
“Right. Thank you for the, uh, chat and tips.”
His brows lift. “Tips?”
“The um, cardamom. It’s a terrible suggestion, but you know, you tried.”
I turn and put my apron on the counter and then grab a rag from the rack and start wiping off the countertop again. I’ll ignore him and this whole