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 you insane?”
Brent had been reaching for the pie again, finger extended, my thighs already trembling in anticipation of where that digit would end up, when I blurted the question. At my words, he froze, and one eyebrow went up.
“You’re at my house on the invitation of a woman you don’t know, an invitation I’m guessing you accepted because you’re a nice guy who rescues purses and didn’t want to make a lonely woman who’s new in town feel bad for issuing you an inappropriate invite.” I sucked in a breath. “And a lonely one who all but assaulted you in your office, just because there was mistletoe overhead, and I was desperate to kiss your gorgeous mouth.
“And then you show up with the most adorable little Christmas tree—which is amazing and cute and absolutely perfect, just like you—but then I burn dessert and it’s my livelihood to not burn pies because I sold fifty thousand of them to grocery stores this year.” I shoved my bangs out of my eyes. “And worse, now I’ve been going on and on about how beautiful you are and thinking about how much I want to kiss you again, when I definitely know I shouldn’t be thinking any of those things because you’re way out of my league.”
I finally managed to shut my mouth, mainly because my embarrassment had reached a critical level and it stoppered up the words in the back of my throat.
Silence.
For a long, critically embarrassing, horrifying moment.
Finally, Brent took a step toward me. “You think I’m beautiful?”
I sighed, chin dropping forward to rest on my chest. “That’s what you took from what I just said?”
He smiled. “You think I’m beautiful,” he repeated, without the question mark this time, taking another step closer.
I groaned.
His fingers, one slightly sticky from the cherry pie, cupped my jaw. “You really sold fifty-thousand pies last year?”
I nibbled at the corner of my mouth. “Unburned ones. Yes.”
He laughed and I swear, I felt that laughter enter my body, felt it fill my blood with champagne. God, he had an intoxicating laugh.
Sexy smile.
Hot as hell body.
That low, rasping chuckle that slid like honey down my spine.
“Sounds like I’m the one who’s out of my league, darlin’, seeing as I’m a lowly bartender and you’re the entrepreneur who’s sold fifty-thousand pies.”
I scoffed, waved a hand up and down my body. “Have you seen me?” I asked then pointed to him. “Have you seen you? Brent, you’re solid muscle and have a movie star face. I’m a nerdy, overweight female who samples her pies far too often and has an obsession with Christmas. You shouldn’t be here entertaining my invitation, not when you must have better things to do with your time, especially since—”
His mouth dropped to mine, lips slanting, tongue sliding home to tangle with mine, and in one heartbeat I went from thinking about all the reasons I was insane to have invited this man to my house when he should be spending the holiday with someone like Chrissy Teigen and not frumpy, flower-printed apron-wearing Iris Hannigan, to just . . . feeling.
Hot. Wet. Firm pressure. A coaxing tongue.
And desire. So much desire that it felt like lightning had struck in a drought-ridden forest, flames bursting to life, consuming the dry tinder in seconds.
My hands slid up his arms, wrapped around his biceps, clutching the granite-like muscles firmly as my body drifted forward, making contact with his, feeling his hard chest pressed against my soft breasts, getting so many different notes to the intoxicating scent
