I couldn’t regret teasing Lucian to the point where he turned the tables on me. But I would definitely think twice about engaging that way again. Not when he apparently regretted his moment of weakness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucian
After pulling back from the brink of falling on Emma in the pool like a man starved, I stayed away from her and hung out with Brommy. I managed it for two days. And I missed her.
It was irrational, annoying, nonsensical. You weren’t supposed to miss someone you barely knew. You weren’t supposed to crave the sight of them, the sound of their voice, the scent of their skin. Not like this. Holy hell, I’d had the sweet pink rose of her nipple in my mouth. I could still feel its shape on my tongue like some lust phantom designed to drive me out of my mind.
I put it down to being mentally weakened by months of sexual solitude.
My one concession was to bake. For her.
Baking had always been a private thing, something I’d learned at my great-grandfather’s knee, but I had never sought to do more with it. But now? It had become both a challenge and intensely satisfying to come up with new ways to tempt and pleasure Emma. Feeding Emma somehow fed my soul as well.
She didn’t know that the brioches in her breakfast basket had been formed by my hand. She didn’t know the macarons—two each night, sent in a small box—were mine. But I did.
In moments of weakness, I’d close my eyes and try to imagine her soft lips parting over jewel-bright confections, pink tongue tasting the flavors of me—achieved by the strange alchemy of whipping egg whites, infusing creams, and straining ripe fruits, all melded together into an intense burst of flavor.
Had she preferred the inky-black chicory chocolate, the butter-rich caramel and burnt pear? Or did she moan for the juicy brightness of the grapefruit honey or blood orange and rose?
It was enough to make a man hard.
And aching for the sight of what he shouldn’t have.
Which was why I kept doing it. Maybe I wanted to be found out. I could just tell the woman I was the one making her food, leaving little treats that no one else staying at Rosemont was getting. But there was something about Emma Maron that reverted me right back to the awkward, bumbling geek I’d been in middle school.
Mamie hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said I was small as a kid. Small and shy. When I wasn’t on the ice, I was the guy most likely to hide away. Hockey had changed me into someone cocky, outgoing, fun loving. I liked that version of myself, but now that hockey was over, I realized that part of me was a role I’d been playing.
I wasn’t sure who the real me was anymore, but I knew I wasn’t prepared to march up to Emma’s bungalow with cake in hand.
Keeping to myself as much as possible felt like the safer plan.
Because playing it safe is what got you so far in life.
I hadn’t played it safe with the dessert I’d made Emma today, though. Already, I was regretting it. The choice was pure hubris. There was too much of me—of us—in it. But it was too late to take it back.
Emma
It was the pie that did it. And the kick of it was I didn’t even see it coming. I should have. The signs were all there. But I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been thinking about a certain grumpy hot man who I wanted far too much for my own good.
A man who apparently was avoiding me. I hadn’t seen him in two days. Once, I saw the back of him as he turned a corner, his stride—that freaking swagger that made me think of sex and sin—determined, as though he didn’t want to be caught loitering.
It was my fault for pushing, flirting when he was obviously resisting. Then again, he was the one who’d taken it so far I still shivered when I thought about him drawing closer, his gaze on my mouth like he wanted to devour it. Devour me.
“Ugh.” I flopped back on my sofa. “Stop thinking about him.”
Perhaps I should leave. Find another place to hide out.
My insides twisted. I didn’t want to leave.
Lunch arrived, breaking into my brooding thoughts. Yet another basket—this time brought around by a woman named Janet, who told me she was part of the house staff.
Was it worrisome that I was already salivating like Pavlov’s dog? Probably. But it didn’t stop the giddy anticipation welling up within me. I’d become inordinately excitable over daily meals.
The basket yielded a salad of baby greens and a canister of soup. An accompanying card written in a sharply slanting scrawl informed me that it was called avgolemono: a greek chicken-and-lemon soup. I had a choice of chilled chardonnay or iced tea to go with it.