His eyes change, from aroused to something more shrouded as he runs his fingers down my arm. “Probably your mother.”
I lean back, stunned that he said that to me. “Probably so.” I guess I come off as the screwed-up daughter of a train wreck mother. Lovely.
“I’m only saying because I’ve had my share of therapy,” he says, squeezing my hand before he walks back around the counter, to the oven. He opens it and a heavenly sweet smell wafts out.
“You have?”
“Yes ma’am. Mostly when I was a kid.”
“After your mother passed away?”
Something passes over his face—something ugly. He covers it quickly and nods. “That was part of it.”
“Well, you’re probably right.” I lean against the counter, propping my cheek in one of my palms. “Relationships, other than with Suri and a few other friends—I guess they just don’t seem worth it to me.”
“You don’t want to get hurt.”
“You’re quite the Ann Landers, Hunter West. I’m shocked.”
He looks at me without any trace of a smile. “Got my own advice column. Vegas High-Rolling. For the Las Vegas Sun News.”
I gape, and he laughs.
“You’re a funny guy.”
I’m feeling a little more relaxed now, and happy to flirt with him, and willing to broach sensitive subjects—like: “So what’s up with you and Priscilla?”
“Nothing but the sky,” he says, pouring two tall glasses of orange juice.
“You don’t care about her, but there’s chemistry?”
“I don’t care about her,” he says flatly.
His eyes meet mine, and they’re so cold, and all of a sudden it’s painfully obvious to me that we’re not really friends, or breakfast buddies, or anything at all. We don’t know each other, and I’ve struck a bad chord with my prying question.
Hunter turns back to the stove and begins to pile two plates with food. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. “Here’s one for you: Weren’t you even a little worried about who would win your bid?”
“Uh, yeah. My friend Suri kept joking that it would be someone pervy or super old.”
He smirks, piling scrambled eggs on two big, square plates. “Are you saying I’m over the hill?”
“I didn’t know you’d swoop in to rescue me.”
“That wasn’t a rescue. Believe me.” He checks the oven again then shuts it. “Do your parents know?” He sticks his hands into his pockets and leans against the sink. “I assume not.”
“They don’t.”
“I’m surprised your friends let you go through with it.”
“I needed the money,” I say. “And it was one friend. She was the only one I told before. I didn’t really let her argue.”
“Well, I’m good for it.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, like he has a headache.
“Do you win a lot at poker?”
“I win more trading.” He peeks into the oven one more time, and I think again how sexy he looks in chef mode. I’m about to ask what trading means when I remember—he’s good at the stock market; I’ve heard that a few times.
“What kind of jam do you like?” he asks.
“Strawberry.”
“I’m a strawberry man myself.”
He sets a jar of homemade-looking jam on the counter, then puts the oven mitt back on and opens the oven, pulling out a tray of...
“Beignets! Holy hell, I love those.”
He puts two on a plate and slides it across the counter, then piles three on his own plate. He does not come around to sit beside me.
I pick one up and turn the hot pastry around in my burning fingertips. “You’re incredible.”
“You think so?” He regards me silently over the counter as he polishes off a piece of bacon, then says, “I know you’re doing this for Cross Carlson. I’m not sure if I think you’re stupid or amazing.”
I scrunch my face up. “That’s not the only reason. I’m also doing it because I’m tired of holding onto my V-card.”
That draws a chuckle from him. “V-card, is it? What’s so tiring about it?”
“I guess I’m tired of the anticipation.”
He grins wickedly. “I’d say anticipation is one of the best parts.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur, biting into my beignet.
“And you want to.”
“Oh yeahh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, blissed out over the warm, doughy goodness. When I open them, Hunter is smirking at me. “I meant oh yeah, that tasted really good. But yeah, I do, I guess. Otherwise I would have hung onto it.”
Slowly, languidly, tiger-like, Hunter walks around the counter. He wraps his hands around my biceps, turning me to face him, and he pulls me close. Then he bends down slowly, bringing his face close enough so I have an amazing view of his lips. As I sit there, brainless and overheated, he leans closer and licks the corner of my mouth.
“Powdered sugar…”
I’m halfway to a heart attack when he stands back up, looking down on me with a suddenly serious expression.
“You think about this, Libby. Really think about whether you want to be with me. It’ll be a one-time thing. You said it—I don’t do relationships, and I don’t make exceptions, even when I’m tempted.”