Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,6

the hurt was gone, and then the hurt ceased to exist. Because Brent was very close. His scent surrounded me, the masculine spice warming me from the inside out. I found myself taking a deep inhale, pulling the smell into my lungs, wanting to etch it on my soul so I could drop back into this moment any time I wanted.

Or perhaps, slightly less painfully, I could attempt to bottle it.

Both thoughts were impossible.

Both thoughts gave evidence for why I had lost my mind . . . and my filter.

“How in the world is it fair that you’re so beautiful?” I blurted, staring up at the strong lines of his jaw and nose, the warm amber of his eyes. He was sporting a little stubble today, and I wanted to run my palm over it, feel the roughness catch my skin.

I was so caught up in the scent of him, in imagining my hands on his face and body, that it took my mind a moment to catch up with my words.

My eyes flicked to his face, saw his expression was unfathomable.

Probably looking for a quick exit. Frank had always tended to disappear when I went off on one of my tangents. And my tangents hadn’t been anything like me wanting to etch someone’s scent on my soul or blurting out how beautiful someone was—though Brent was definitely in the gorgeous A-list celebrity bent. They’d been more along the lines of should I risk adding a dash of nutmeg to my apple pie recipe or is that too far out there?

Brent didn’t reply.

Shit.

Strange woman inviting an almost-stranger home.

Now, I was rambling about his beauty.

Ugh. What was I going to do next? Offer to wear his skin like a suit?

I shuddered, the memory of the horror movies that Frank used to subject me to flaring through my brain. Too much. Too creepy. Too . . . much inner monologue when the near-stranger was staring at me, suddenly intent.

Because of the blurting, you moron!

So fucking stupid. My cheeks flared hot, my throat closed up, and I jerked my hand free of the water, quickly wiping it on my apron and turning for the counter where Brent had left the cookie sheet.

I picked up the discarded potholder and snagged the pies, dropping them one by one into the trash.

Pecan.

Shit-canned.

Pumpkin.

Peace out, mofo.

Cherry—

Brent snatched it and the potholder from my hands.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I reached for it. “They’re ruined.”

“Because they’re a little burned?” he asked, holding it aloft.

“A little?” I asked. “They’re charcoal, totally inedible, and—”

He tugged off the burnt crust on the top, dumped it in the trash, then held it out. “Not charcoal, not inedible. See? Problem solved.”

“I can’t serve that.”

He dipped a finger into the cherry pie, probably burning it worse than I’d burned mine, but then it was in his mouth, sucking off—

Sucking. Off.

Dear Lord.

I wanted to—

The sudden bolt of sexual desire that shot through me was so much stronger than anything I’d ever felt with Frank, what had driven me to invite him here, to participate in that kiss in his office, to be obsessed with his scent, his body. Then his finger slid out from between his lips with a soft pop, clean of filling, and I stared at his hand, at the finger, wondering about all of the things those body parts could do.

But this wasn’t me.

I didn’t obsess over men’s bodies. I didn’t want to jump them just because they smelled good.

I didn’t kiss strangers.

I—

“This is delicious,” he murmured. “We can scoop it out of the crust and eat the filling with ice cream.”

“I—” A shake of my head. “But my crust. I—”

“That,” he said, “I think you’re right about.” He broke off a blackened edge and popped it into his mouth, chewing then wincing. “Yup. Charcoal. But, darlin’, just because something gets a little singed on the edges doesn’t mean that it needs to be thrown away.”

“It does when a girl makes her living baking pies just like these.”

He set the pie on the counter, the potholder beneath it. “Are you the girl who makes her living baking pies?”

I wrinkled my nose then admitted, “Yes.”

A shrug. “Well, I bet they’re delicious.” He dipped his finger into the pie again, and while unsanitary, I couldn’t work up any real disgust or outrage. Not when he licked off the filling again, this time with a moan that made my pussy clench. “Yup. I could see it.”

“Y-you can see it?”

He unleashed the smile. “Yup,” he said again.

“Are