“Maybe you will.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. The look she gave him—as if she were seriously considering—shot a little thrill through his chest. “I should fight you for it on principle alone.”
Oh, the images that flashed in his head . . .
If only.
But he just wasn’t that lucky, and this project was just too important to both of them to mess it up with flirtation gone wild.
Trace purposely brought the teasing back to a respectable level. “But you won’t because you know it’s late, you know I’ve got to be starving, and you know I won’t have time to stop for lunch today.”
Her gaze darted to the clock on the wall, and her humor faded. “Oh my God, it is late.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the old fridge. Trace took the opportunity to grab the ruined cupcake while her back was turned. This batch was for a bridal shower / wedding-cake-tasting party, so he knew they would be her best. And after working around Av
ery seven days a week for two months, Trace knew she made twice as many of everything as she actually needed. So he didn’t feel bad about stripping the wrapper and stuffing half of the cake into his mouth.
But the giant bite didn’t give him the chocolate hit he’d expected. Instead he got a mouthful of decadent spices blended in a thick-textured, melt-in-his-mouth cake. And the cream cheese icing added a luscious zing that made Trace moan.
“Trace Hutton,” she scolded, complete with a two-year-old foot-stomp. “Those are not for you.”
Trace started laughing and covered his mouth so the cupcake didn’t end up all over the kitchen. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Did you seriously just stomp your foot? Okay, that was almost the highlight of my day.” He lifted the other half of the cupcake. “This is the absolute highlight of my day. But they’re not chocolate. Why do I smell chocolate?”
“Because I’m making brownies for Finley’s Market.” She pushed two brown paper bags across the counter. “Sandwiches and apple turnovers.”
Trace stuffed the other half of the cupcake into his mouth, groaning at the way the flavors blended and instantly changed his entire outlook on life for the better. “Oh my God. What is this?”
“Carrot cake from scratch with crushed pineapple, and ginger-cinnamon cream cheese frosting.” When Trace reached for another cupcake, she slapped his hand again. “You’re killing my profits, Hutton. Get out.” She pointed to one of the bags. “And hide those apple turnovers until George gets some protein in him. You, too. You both have an insatiable sweet tooth that’s going to lead to diabetes if you don’t change your diets.”
“Says the woman single-handedly keeping the sugarcane industry alive.”
She picked up a rag, rounded the counter, and started wiping the icing from his body.
Trace dropped his arms to his sides, giving her full access to whatever part of him she wanted to touch. But he had to fist his hands to keep from touching her back. Over the last two months, their friendship had grown closer and more flirtatious. They’d both walked right up to the line that differentiated friends from something more, yet neither had stepped over.
Which was the way he knew it should stay. Even if her eyes on him made him wish for so much more.
“I think I got it all.” She tossed the rag onto the counter and returned to her frosting station. “Now go. You’re going to be late.”
Most women liked his body. Construction work kept him muscular and fit without additional exercise or weights. But if Avery was impressed, she didn’t show it.
“Can I bring one of those to my dad?” he asked, wanting her eyes on him again. Wanting to see if he could catch any hint of heat there.
“Pffft.” She didn’t look up from her renewed focus in decorating. “Like I believe George would ever see it. Oh—”
She stopped in midsqueeze, set her pastry bag down, and bent to look beneath the counter. The soft fabric of her blouse bowed a little—thank God for gravity—and Trace got a peek at her bra and the breasts filling the cups. Yes, he’d sunk to grabbing peeks wherever he could get them.
She was on the smallish side, but her breasts were round and perfectly proportioned to her body. He was sure they would also feel like silk under his tongue and cradle his cock to perfection.
“When I was restocking at Wildly Artisan,” she said, “Carolyn, the woman who has the space right next to mine, told me about this website on music therapy for dementia and Alzheimer patients. It made me think of George. I printed the article out for you.”
She straightened and offered Trace a couple of pages.
He took them and pretended to glance over the text, but he was momentarily awed—yet again—by her generosity.
Avery sold her sweets in key places across town as promotion in preparation for the grand opening of Wild Harts, a diner and bakery. She rented a spot in her aunt’s business, Wildly Artisan, where artists of all kinds sold their creations. Avery couldn’t bake fast enough to keep up with the demands from her space there. She also replenished sweets at the local grocery, Finley’s Market, daily, and did a decent Internet business. Not to mention her custom-cake orders for special occasions or her dessert-catering gigs.
She was one of the busiest people Trace had ever met, working sunup to sundown, seven days a week, striving to make her dream a success. Yet somewhere in her “free time” she’d researched a tangential topic she thought might help his father.
And what had Trace been doing? Lusting after her body.