Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy 1)

She shook her head and grinned. “In words that you can understand, it’s two sweet, meringue-based cookies that are light and chewy, with a whipped caramel cream sandwiched in the center.”

“Meringue?” he repeated, raising a brow. “There you go again, using those big words.”

“Just try the damn thing,” she said, laughing and enjoying the light banter between them, which had become their norm.

Grinning back at her, he took a bite and chewed, then groaned in appreciation. She loved that sound—it was the same sound he made when he was buried deep inside of her, an open expression of pleasure, and it made her happy to be the one to provide that gratification, in whatever form.

“Every day you bake something new. And every day I swear it’s my favorite dessert,” he said in amusement. “But this macaron thing is like a little bit of heaven in my mouth.”

He slipped a hand around the nape of her neck and tipped her head up toward his. “After you, of course,” he murmured, eyes twinkling wickedly as he sealed his lips against hers and kissed her. Slowly. Leisurely. Thoroughly.

She shivered as his mouth moved over hers seductively, and his tongue tangled lazily with hers until she was breathless and aroused and on the verge of ripping his clothes off and having her way with him right here and now.

But she’d come down today with a purpose, and she needed to follow through on her plan. With a hand pressed to his chest, she gently pushed him back and met his dark, heated gaze that was so very hard to resist.

“I need to talk to you,” she said with determination, and wasn’t surprised when his entire body language shifted.

He visibly tensed and stepped back, the word “talk” obviously making him wary.

“Talking is overrated,” he said in a surprisingly light tone. “Wouldn’t you rather go upstairs and have me use my mouth for other things?” he asked in a teasing, sensual tone that contradicted the guarded look in his eyes.

“How about after we talk?” She bit down on her lower lip, knowing she couldn’t let him deter her. “It’s about something that’s important to me,” she added softly.

That last part seemingly made all the difference to him, because he gave her a nod and sat down on the chair next to hers so they were facing one another. “What’s up?”

“First of all, thank you for letting me use your laptop the last couple of days,” she said, wanting to ease into the conversation.

He frowned, obviously not expecting such a casual comment. “Of course. I have my desktop in my office that I use, so it’s not a problem. But that can’t be what’s so urgent.”

“No.” She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. “I’ve spent the past week doing a lot of thinking and considering all my options. How do I move forward as a pastry chef? How does someone without experience get a job? And where? And what kind of work environment am I looking for? And I realized that I don’t want to work in a restaurant. What I’d like to do is work for a French bakery.”

The decision wasn’t one she’d come to lightly. She’d really weighed all her options, considering not just the realities but the emotions involved. This was the first time in her life she’d be making her own decision, and she wanted to get it right. And she liked the creativity that came with making tarts and pies and specialty desserts, instead of baking and decorating just cakes.

“I can see you doing that,” he said, smiling in support. “Most of things you’ve made the past two weeks have been French pastries, right?”

She nodded.

“I especially liked that pastry thing you made the other day with the flaky layers of thin crust and vanilla custard,” he said.

“The mille-feuille,” she replied, knowing exactly what dessert he was referring to.

“Yeah, that one,” he said with another teasing eye roll. “Mason went into the break room that night—God only knows for what—and had some of it, too. After eating a slice, he told me that he was going to marry you just so he could keep you barefoot and in the kitchen making him nothing but pastries and pies.”

She laughed out loud, because she could easily see Mason saying something outrageous like that. Over the past two weeks, Clay’s middle sibling had made it his mission to flirt with her, and she was pretty sure he only did it to annoy his brother. There was no attraction between the two of them, and she knew Mason’s personality well enough by now to know he took great pleasure in yanking Clay’s chain.

“What did you say to that?” she asked curiously.

“I told him over my fucking dead body,” he said without cracking a smile.

The possessive tone of Clay’s voice made her insides quiver. That was yet another thing she’d noticed lately—that Clay was protective and territorial when it came to other men sniffing around her, even his joking brother. Clay was all alpha when it came to her, and she liked it. A lot.

It was ironic that she was so desperate to break free from her parents’ hold and become independent, yet she didn’t mind when Clay exerted his authority and possessiveness over her. It made her feel warm and mushy inside…wanted…and in a strange way, loved. She shook her head and cleared that thought out of her mind. She liked Clay’s control in the bedroom and he liked to exert it. End of story, for him, anyway.

“So, about the French bakery,” she continued, getting the conversation back on track. “I contacted someone my mother has hired a few times to make pastri

es and desserts for various parties at the house. The woman’s name is Adeline, and she owns her own French bakery and catering business in downtown Chicago. I did some research on her business and read reviews on the bakery and catering, all of which were nearly five-star ratings. She has a phenomenal reputation, so I gathered up the nerve and gave her a call.”

The slightest of frowns gathered between his brows as he rested his forearm on the counter of the bar. “I had no idea you were looking around for a new job.”