After a warning knock, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The scent of fresh-baked…something…hit him first, and pulled his attention across the living room to the kitchen beyond. She stood there, framed by the pass-through, wearing a white apron, and holding a chocolate-covered spatula midair.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “You should lock your door.”
She dropped the spatula into the mixing bowl that sat on the counter in front of her and then wiped her hands on a towel before fixing the sliding strap of the little black slip she had on beneath the apron. “You should wait ‘til you’re invited in.”
Those flashing blue eyes were all it took to have his dick lifting. “The evidence suggests I would have been waiting all night.” He crossed the room until he stood on the other side of the counter. “Apparently sometime during the last few hours you lost the ability to communicate.”
“Maybe you were too busy communicating with someone else tonight to notice me making an attempt?”
The moody comment surprised him. Her, too, judging by how she snapped her mouth shut, and began rearranging ingredients on the counter.
“Care to elaborate, Jailbait? Right now I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know what? I don’t care to.” She picked up the mixing bowl and began stirring the contents with the spatula. “I’m tired.”
The vigorous stirring jiggled her tits. If she kept that up, this was going to be a short conversation. “That’s why you’re baking up a storm in the middle of the night?”
“Baking relaxes me. Unlike uninvited company and unwanted conversation. If you feel like communicating, go find Arden St. Sebastian. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to continue whatever fascinating discussion you were having tonight while eye fucking each other in the middle of a goddamn party.”
Okay, yes, he had talked with Arden tonight, one-on-one and at some length, but there’d been absolutely no eye fucking on either of their parts. Obviously, Lauralie had seen them and jumped to a different conclusion. Her misread of the situation was clearly pissing the shit out of her, and while he never would have intentionally toyed with her emotions, the jealousy brought an almost obscene level of gratification. A laugh escaped before he could hold it back.
Her head jerked up and she glared at him while she continued stirring her frosting with real violence now. “Get out.”
Well aware he risked bodily harm, he rounded the counter and strode into her kitchen. She’d been busy. Flour covered the surface of the butcher-block island, and a rack of pastries sat cooling on the counter. “Not on your life ”
She slammed the bowl onto the counter and turned on him. “Was it her?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking.”
Her barefoot strides closed the distance between them and she stabbed her finger into his chest. Her fingertip left a white imprint on his tuxedo jacket. “You do so. Was she your first choice? Is she the reason you came sniffing around my door on New Year’s Eve, desperate for a rebound fuck?”
He would have laughed again at the absurdity of the notion he’d had any agenda except being with her when he’d shown up at her apartment that night, but she seemed to genuinely believe he might. “Jailbait, I barely know her.”
“Yeah. Right. You always find a quiet corner in the middle of a party to have an intimate chat with some girl you barely know?” She punctuated the accusation with another poke. “Do you have any idea what kind of an idiot I felt like, standing there while Miranda McQueen went on about what a lovely couple you two make? I—I don’t need this. And based on what everybody saw tonight, neither do you.” Another poke. “The deal’s off.”
His patience ran out. He grabbed her wrist and stepped forward, forcing her to step back.
“Hey…” She tugged her wrist but he didn’t let go.
“This isn’t about our deal.”
Her laugh held no humor. “Only someone with money would say that.”
“Bullshit.” He took another step forward. “It’s never been about the money, and we both know it. Let’s move that out of our way right now.” He let go of her and dug a check out of his wallet. A rummage through her junk drawer yielded a pen. He scrawled out a check for three grand and held it out to her. “Invest it in your business, spend it on therapy, or bury it in the sand, right next to your head. I don’t care what you do with it, but money’s not between us anymore.”
She backed up a step and glared at him. “I don’t need therapy—”
“You do, if you honestly think there’s room in my head for anyone but you.” He cornered her between his body and the kitchen island, and shoved the check into the pocket of her apron. “Do you?” He flattened his palms on the butcher block on either side of her and waited for an answer.
She tossed her head back, but kept her lips stubbornly closed.
“You think when I’m here”—he reached under the apron, under her slip, and cupped her—“I’m fantasizing about anyone else?”
Her eyelids lowered a notch and color whipped into her cheeks. “I don’t care.”
He curled his other arm around her waist and lifted her onto the island. The landing sent up a cloud of flour. The rolling pin she’d left there tumbled to the floor with a solid thud. “You’re so jealous, you can’t think straight—”
“I’m not jealous.” She stressed this with a roll of her hips. “I never get jealous.”