He moves his arm to his side, "I rest my case."
Hell, but a certain part of him is far from being in resting position. Gulp. Did I just word play on his dick play? Clearly, his proximity is rubbing off if all I can think of are these poor jokes.
"By the way," his tone is conversational, "you planning on defending yourself with that?" He jerks his chin.
I tighten my grasp around the spatula and raise it. "This has been known to strike fear in the heart of burglars and those who’ve tried to break in on me before," I snap.
"You were burgled?" His jaw hardens.
"None of your business."
"Answer the bloody question." He takes a step forward. I scoot back. My leg brushes something warm and furry, which moves.
"Whoa!" I struggle to find my balance then, for the second time in ten minutes, the world tilts, and I find myself falling… Falling.
The spatula slips from my grasp. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for my butt to connect with the hard ground, only I’m yanked upright. Heat envelops me and my breasts flatten against something unyielding. I don’t need to open my eyelids to know it’s his chest, the one with the cut planes, the eight-pack abs. I slap my palm against that wall of muscles which coil, move, and writhe under my fingertips. I gulp and my legs threaten to give way under me, but his hold around my shoulders tightens. I spot the smoldering smoke stick of his on the ground.
"Your…cigar," I stutter.
“You noticed,” he quips.
I grimace, then nod my head toward the floor. “I meant that one.”
"Forget that." His breath feathers over my hair and liquid lust shoots through my veins. The scent of pine and cloves mixes with that edgy darkness that is purely Weston. Speaking of—something hard stabs into my waist—the aforementioned “cigar.” A groan boils up my throat. Not fair—this crazy attraction to someone I’ve barely met a couple of times. Why does he have to smell so delicious? Bet if I licked his chest, he’d taste more decadent than the chocolate mud pie cake recipe I’ve been wanting to bake. I'll lick the frosting off his cupcake any time. Nooooo. Not again. Enough with comparing his unmentionables with my favorite stuffed goodies. OMG, how would it feel to have him stuff his goodies in my cannoli? Wait, did that even make sense?
His voice dips, “You haven’t answered my question."
"What?" I blink.
"Someone broke in on you?" He enunciates his words at a slow pace as if I am slow of mind… Which, I admit, at the moment, I seem to be. His larger-than-life charisma has turned my brain cells to mush. "Tell me," he coaxes. Is he using the same tone he’d use with the puppy to make him obey? Well, hell, if it isn’t working on me as well.
"Y…yes." My stomach clenches. "But I fought off the thief…." I force out the words.
His muscles coil; tension radiates off of his body. "You confronted the man?" he snaps.
"Yeah," I hunch my shoulders, "It happened a week ago… No biggie." I swallow as my heart begins to race. It hadn’t been pleasant, that almost encounter. I had been alone in the kitchen of my bakery at 4 am… Hell, it had been horrible, actually. The guy had thrown a fright into me and I had thrown this spatula at him. "I chased him off. Yay. See? I’m fine, still alive." And bloody shaken, but I’m not going to tell him that.
His grip tightens, "Did he hurt you?" His jaw tics.
I stare up into his tight features. You’d think Mr. Jerkass here is all concerned about my safety.
"Did he?" his voice snaps through the noise in my head.
"N…no," I shake my head.
"No, what?"
No, I will not give in to this insane chemistry between us. I didn’t come all this way to run slap-bang into a man who is, surely, far worse than the one who recently broke my heart. "No, he didn’t do any harm. He ran off before I could use the spatula on him." I tip up my chin. "Though I can’t promise the same to you."
He chuckles, "I love a good fight, don’t you?"
Jackass.
A whine sounds behind me.
I shoot a sideways glance to spot a puppy plant his behind on the ground…exactly the kind of position I’d have been in, if ‘Mr. Overbearing Brute’ here hadn’t grabbed me first. Oh, so that's what I’d brushed against earlier and almost fallen over.
"Max," Weston talks to the dog, "you hungry, buddy?"
The puppy whines again.
"I’ll be right there, little fella." His voice takes on a cajoling tone, and damn him, but my ovaries seem to spasm. The hell is he doing to me? Before this, I’ve never thought about kids… Hell, I’ve barely managed to embark on a halfway decent career, and I’ve never thought of myself as someone who’d want a family. But Weston, with his smoldering glare, his hard face, his harder—um—body, and that coaxing manner with which he talks to Max… I can see him with a child tucked under one arm, and me under his other… Heck, I can see me under him, period. My mouth waters. My panties dampen further. Get your mind out of the gutter, you slut.
"Isn’t he Sinclair and Summer’s pet?" I frown. My friend Summer had married Sinclair Sterling, one of the seven billionaire co-owners of 7A investments. The media had labelled them the Seven and, Dr Douche here is one of them.
"Summer and Sinclair are away on an extended honeymoon," Weston grunts.
"Aww. So you decided to puppy-sit?" A warm glowing ball lights up inside of me.
He glowers, "Don’t gush any sweet icky stuff now—uh, what’s your name again?"
Poof—that warm feeling I mentioned? Forget about it. The hell is wrong with this man? "You know my name all right, you ass." I stab my finger in his chest, "So why are you pretending otherwise?"
"Me?" He blinks, "Do I?" He tilts his head, pretending to think, "Is it Lily?"
A slow burn starts up my spine.
"No… No." He cracks his neck, "It will come to me, it will… It’s Malia, right?"
Anger laces the edges of my vision. I draw in a breath, then another. Stay calm, he can only get so much more obnoxious, right?
"Wait, let me try, one more time…" He pats his temple with the palm of his injured hand. "It’s…something French, isn’t it? Like… Valerie, Malory, maybe? No, I have it." He snaps his fingers, "It’s Celine. I got that right, didn’t I?" He chuckles.
I clench my fists, then raise my hand toward his face.
He catches my wrist. "Tsk, tsk," he clicks his tongue. "What a temper you have, little one."
"Don’t ‘little one’ me… You… You wanker."
"Finally," his eyes gleam, "here kitty, kitty, show me your claws."
"I’ll do better than that," I hiss, "I’ll show you how it is to see the sun at night time."
I bring up my knee, aim for his groin.
2
Weston
What the hell? I know what she intends to do, a second before she moves. I step aside and her knee grazes the outside of my thigh. I release her shoulders only to grab the nape of her neck. "Stop that," I scold her, "or you’ll hurt yourself."