There’s a knock on Bernadette’s door.
It pulls me out of deep concentration on the trailer project and sends a small thrill of anticipation up my spine.
Kane.
It’s gotta be Kane. It’s not like I get visitors.
I haul myself off the couch—an increasingly challenging undertaking. Even though I know it has to be him, I peep out. One of the awesome mods on Bernadette, courtesy of her previous owner, is a peephole, which is super useful when you’re a single woman on the road alone.
And even though I know it has to be him, I still feel a surge of pleased surprise when I see his face.
“Delivery,” he says, holding out a big, round Tupperware… cake holder? “Boston cream pie.”
Holy shit, he found it.
I yank open the door and have to stop myself from snatching the cake out of his hands. Or throwing my arms around him and hugging the crap out of him. “Where did you find it?”
“I—”
He stops, appearing to think better of whatever he was about to say, but it’s too late. I know where that sentence was going.
“You made it?”
“Amanda helped,” he says, like that’s going to take anything away from a six-foot-something built-like-a-God man who bakes Boston cream pies.
“Aaaaahhhh!” I cry, overcome. “You are a saint and a genius.”
He tries to bite back a smile. “I think you’re overstating things a little.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I have been fantasizing about yellow custard, soft yellow cake, and chocolate ganache nonstop since before I knew Kane had planted this baby in me. “Come in. You have to have some, too.”
“It’s all for you,” he says. “I wouldn’t take any of your special treat. Your presentation was fantastic. You deserve all the cake.”
This guy. I swear. He was too much in Vegas, when all I knew about him was that he asked real questions and knew how to use his body for both good and evil. Now…
“Well, come in anyway.”
He hesitates again, then follows me in, setting the cake on the counter. I remove my bracelets, wash my hands, and take two small plates down from the cabinets. I grab two forks from the utensil drawer, and two mugs from the overhead hooks. “I don’t have coffee—” I gesture at my belly, “—but I have tea, milk, or water.”
“Water would be great,” he says. “And no cake. I’m serious. It’s yours.”
I wrestle the cake carrier open and cut into my prize. My mouth waters as I do. It’s so—
Not gonna say moist, but holy shit, it soooo is.
“Can I look at these?” he asks.
I look up to see him touching my bracelets where I left them on the kitchen counter.
“Sure.”
“This one. You always fidget with it.” He picks it up and reads aloud the inscription. “Not all those who wander are lost.” He smiles. “Tolkien, huh?”
“My mom gave it to me. When I was twelve. Not too long before she left.”
He sets the bracelet down. “But you still wear it.”
“I didn’t for a while. And then I wanted to again. Because I believe it’s true.”
His eyes move slowly over my face; I’ve seen that expression on his face before, when he’s taking photographs. He’s seeing. It makes me feel both warm and a little nervous. What, exactly, is he seeing?
“It doesn’t get lonely? Living like that?”
I shake my head. That’s an easy question. “Not for me. It makes me happy.”
He seems to chew on that, his gaze moving from my face to someplace far away, past it.
We sit at Bernadette’s little pink dinette table. I’d forgotten how small this table is with two people at it. Or maybe it’s how big Kane is; his knees touch mine, and his arms cover so much territory, even with his hands folded. I force myself to look away because staring at close range is both rude and dangerous.
His eyes are very, very blue.
I dig in. “Oh, wow,” I say. “Wow.”
It’s soft. Moist (again, sorry!). Tender, springy. The custard is cool and smooth on my tongue, the ganache dark and flavorful.
“Mmm. Just. Thank you.”
Kane grins at me, like he’s pleased, though there’s something else in his expression I can’t quite read. “I did good?”
“You did amazing. So good I could kiss you.”
One eyebrow goes up, but he only says, “How does it rate among the Boston cream pies of the world?”
“It’s up there. Although pregnancy might be biasing me.” I lick a bite that’s mostly custard from my fork, and catch a glimpse of Kane’s face. His eyes are… interested. I lick again, for good measure, and notice the muscle in his jaw tense.
A ripple of tension slides down the lower slope of my belly and lodges itself in my internal muscles. In their constantly primed state, they… quiver dangerously.
The next time I look at him, Kane’s eyes are on my chest. I’m wearing a flowy green maternity dress with a low scoop neck, and, why, yes, it does show off my newly ridiculously huge boobs to excellent advan—
“You have—“
He reaches out. “Some cake—”
His finger almost touches the upper curve of my breast, and, oh, whoops, yes, that is cake on my boob. I use my own finger to scoop it up, then lick it clean.
I hear the moment the breath leaves Kane’s lungs.
I see the moment his gaze travels from my chest to my mouth, when it fixes on my finger, sliding between my lips. The moment it sticks, and stays, right there on my mouth, even as my hand drops away.
“Mari—”
His voice is hoarse.
“Do it. Just—do it,” I order him.
Then he’s leaning over the table, setting his mouth over mine, hot and unhesitating and so, so good.
I go up in flames. I drop the fork with a clatter, grab his arms across the table, moaning and whimpering my approval. And he responds like he’s been electrified, devouring my sounds, plundering my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine.
And then, as quickly as he started it, he breaks the kiss.
He collapses back in his seat with a groan. Licks his bottom lip. And, fuck me, I can’t take my eyes off his blown pupils and puffy just-kissed mouth…
By the time I organize my brain enough to get my bearings, Kane has pushed himself up and slid out of his seat.
I follow his gaze. His eyes rest on my bracelet, still sitting on the kitchen counter, then track back to my face.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’re—sorry?” I demand. Because, you know. No one should ever say that after a kiss.
“Not—that I—I’m not sorry I kissed you. God, no.” His eyes get bigger, darker. “Let me just repeat that. I wouldn’t unkiss you for the world.”
That makes me snort-laugh, even as my body is seizing up in preparation for disappointment. No, Miss Horny Pants, not for you, not today.
“But it’s a terrible idea. I shouldn’t have.”
“I mean, the damage is kind of done,” I tease, waving a hand over my belly.
That makes him smile.
“It wasn’t as good as you remembered?” I’m half teasing, half not.
At that, his pupils get even bigger.
“Ah. No. I mean, yes. I mean—Jesus, Mari, I can’t answer that. That night…”
His words, but even more, the tone of his voice, send a surge of heat and tingles straight to my already-swollen sex.
“Me too,” I whisper.
His eyes are fierce on me, and for a second, I think he’s coming back for more, and my entire body thrills at the possibility. But at the last minute, he sighs, and his gaze falls to the table. Then meets mine, frank and warm. “What I like, what I want, really doesn’t matter right now. There are more important things at stake than…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, and impishly, I do: “Than how hot that kiss was?”
He groans. “Mari.”
“I mean, it was extremely hot.”
The color is high in his cheeks, and his pupils have blotted out most of the blue in his eyes. “You are not helping.”
“It depends what you’re trying to achieve,” I point out. I know I’m not being fair.
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking really hard about that. And that, right there?
That’s one of the things I like so, so much about Kane.
“We’re both trying to figure out how this baby should grow up. And that includes the question of…” He hesitates and turns away from me. “Whether its parents are a couple or not. Not whether or not we’re attracted to each other, because I think we can both agree”—his eyes meet mine again, dark and hungry, setting up an answering longing in me—“that we are. But whether you want to be here. Permanently here. That’s very much up in the air.”
I nod, because as much as I don’t want to admit it right now with the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands still vivid, he’s absolutely right.
“And I don’t want to cloud either of our judgements. I’m trying to do the right thing,” he says finally.
Of course he is. I’m starting to get the impression that Kane Wilder will do the right thing no matter what.
And even though that’s frustrating right this second, it’s also exactly what I need from him.
More importantly? It’s what this baby needs from him.
I take a deep breath, stow my horniness for the thousandth time since I’ve arrived in Rush Creek, and smile at him.
“I know. And as much as I hate to admit it, I also know you’re right.”
That doesn’t mean I don’t want another of those kisses. Or a hundred more.