Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
A loud knock echoes through the trailer and straight into my very bones.
We jerk apart, Corbin ripping away from me, backing up to the sink. I blink, then brush my hands down my stained apron. I reorient myself to the present, not the filthy future of my dirty dreams. Not the pulsing between my thighs. Not the fact that I was this close to using my brother’s best friend to get myself off in a trailer.
What the hell is happening to me?
“Yes?” I croak out as Corbin smooths his shirt and adjusts himself from a safer distance.
“It’s Poppy, and it’s photo time,” says the cool, feminine voice of Ronnie’s assistant.
“Okay,” I say, sounding breathless and, I suppose, horny.
Well, I am.
But that’s not good. I need to get back out there to pose for the photo and maybe salvage something from this contest. I need to think about something, anything, other than what I just did in the trailer of the host of the cake contest.
I am a hot mess.
But at least my panties aren’t. Not entirely.
I try to clear the fog of lust by thinking about a recipe for something challenging to make…like a chocolate éclair.
Choux pastry is the lava pit of bakers, just waiting for you to misstep.
I review the first round of cooking the dough, but it’s hard to erase that kiss when Corbin’s gaze sweeps over me like he’s adjusting to a new reality too—one where he’s kissed me on an unspoken dare. He’s staring at me with a furrowed brow…and a hard-on that hasn’t deflated.
Well, I can’t not look at those nice gray slacks. Even though that’s a boring color for a man who likes frosting and forbidden kisses.
We’re both silent, like we can stop time or reverse decisions. But Poppy is having none of that. She knocks again.
I clear my head as best I can, then call out: “I’m on my way.”
“Lovely. Since it’s photo time now,” she says, sounding completely unamused by how long this is taking.
I whirl back to face Corbin. What do I say? That was nice. Should we do it again, even though it’d make my hot-mess life even messier? It would throw a wrench into his too. Still, I catalogue the heated eyes that don’t look away from me, the hair that I want to run my fingers through, the body I want to explore.
And…oh shit. My gaze lands on his expensive shirt. It’s white…and a little pink now. “Corbin,” I whisper. “I think some frosting from my apron got on your shirt. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one.”
He glances down at it, curses under his breath, then looks up quickly. “I can wash it. It’s fine.”
“But you have to go to the arena.”
Then again, what am I going to do? Go rush out and buy him a new one now, when he’s due there any minute?
“Go, Mabel. I’m all good,” he says, in that same I’ve got this tone he used when he ushered me to this trailer fifteen minutes ago.
I burst out the door, leaving that unexpected kiss behind.
4
THE TEETH OF A SHARK
MABEL
I arrive at the baking stations in a flurry, breathless because I raced over from the trailer. The crowd’s even bigger now. Great.
“How good of you to join us,” Ronnie remarks coolly.
Do I have I’ve just been kissed senseless written on my forehead?
Actually, crap. I might. A few strands of hair have come loose from my braid, and my lips feel bee-stung, and I imagine Ronnie’s narration.
Now, in fifth and decidedly last place, is Mabel the Messmaker. Tell us, Mabel, how was it to snog in my trailer?
“Thanks for giving me the chance,” I say, tucking the errant strands over my ears.
“It’s in the rules. I have to.”
“Cool. I love rules,” I say, ignoring his dig, keeping up a bright, shiny attitude.
Ronnie just shoots me a searing I know what you did stare. Though, it might also be a Shut up, you little brat stare.
I stay strong, though, my smile never wavering.
After five more seconds of trying and failing to make me wither, he huffs and shifts his attention to the four bakers who didn’t fall into their cakes. Lucky fuckers. “You all did so well,” he says. To them. Rare praise from the tough-as-nails chef. But it also feels a little pointed against me.
I try to ignore it, taking this opportunity for publicity.
Poppy assembles the five of us before the audience, making sure I’m farthest away from the photographer. When I look behind me, I see my cake has magically disappeared, and my station is spic and span. All the other cakes are still in place, including the one with a red, heart-shaped trophy perched in front of it. Reality smacks into me—Ronnie handed out the trophy while I was in the trailer. He really doesn’t want me around.