He stands, regret creeping across his face. “Seriously, Maddie. It was a joke. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“Yeah, you never mean to,” I say. “But you do. I’m not a little girl anymore, Jamison. I’m a grown woman who’s had a grown woman’s shitty year and I don’t need you picking on me on top of it.”
He reaches out, gently prying the coffee cup from my fingers and setting it on the table before taking both of my hands in his. “I know. And I’m sorry,” he says in a voice so low and gentle I almost believe him. “I really am. I apologize for being a jerk.”
I sigh and nod, only a little begrudgingly.
“Apology accepted?” He shoots me his puppy dog look, the one I’m sure he knows is nearly impossible to resist.
I roll my eyes, my shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “And thanks for calling me on my bullshit. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble as I loop my arms around his waist, trying to ignore how nice it feels to be pressed against his chest.
Jamison has hugged me lots of times—dozens of friendly hugs throughout the years—but none of them have ever made me this aware of the fact that he’s hard in all the places I’m soft.
Aware of the fact that his arms feel so nice wrapped around me, or that his smell is even more intoxicating up close.
He smells damned good, so good I can’t help lifting my nose to the place where his shoulder meets his neck and breathing deep. I hold the breath for a moment, eyes closing as a shiver works its way through me, from head to toe.
My lids open a moment later to find Jamison staring down at me, his brows drawn together and an unspoken question in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, my pulse speeding, hoping my strange effervescent feelings aren’t showing on my face.
“Were you…sniffing me?”
My mouth goes dry with embarrassment, but I don’t pull away. “Maybe,” I say defensively. “Maybe you smell good, okay?”
“And maybe you look really pretty without makeup,” he observes in a lightly bewildered voice.
“Ha,” I say. “Yeah right.”
“You do,” he insists. “I like your freckles. They’re cute.” His arms tighten around me.
“Don’t mess with me, Jamison,” I warn, not sure what to do with this tingling feeling he’s inspired or the way he’s looking at me.
“I’m not,” he says, a husky note in his voice that makes me wonder if he’s feeling this too—this crazy, unexpected, lustful vibe that makes me want to drag him into the kitchen and have my way with him on the food prep counter.
And then he leans down, bringing his lips closer to mine, and wondering becomes a suspicion.
The suspicion is seconds away from becoming a certainty—and our friendship dangerously close to being forever changed by a very unfriendly kiss—when a door slams outside, and Naomi’s voice shouts hello to someone on the street.
Jamison and I leap apart, staring at each other with twin guiltily confused expressions before I spin to grab my coffee and Jamison backs toward the door.
“Okay, well, see you later, Maddie,” he says, clearing his throat. “Thanks for the uh, talk, and stuff.”
“Yeah, you too.” I gulp coffee, trying to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has transpired as he flees into the street.
Naomi breezes into the bakery moments later.
“What was that about?” she asks, frowning as she jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Jamison looked like he was in here stealing cookies.”
I force a laugh. “No. He just wanted to talk about Faith and Mick. He thinks they’re moving too fast. He’s afraid Faith’s going to get hurt.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “He’s crazy. They’re great together. I know we were doubtful at first, but I think Mick’s gone on her, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I say “I told Jamison the same thing. I think he knows Mick’s on the up and up now.”
And he knows that you think he smells great and were totally on board with that almost-kiss that almost-happened.
Crap on a poppy seed cracker, you almost kissed Jamison!
What is wrong with you?
“Good.” Naomi unwinds her gauzy pink scarf from around her neck. “He should leave them alone. They’re happy, they’re good to each other, and I say don’t look for trouble where there isn’t any.”
“Exactly,” I say, ready to change the subject and get my mind off love—and lust—in all its forms. “Speaking of trouble, how many Tall, Dark, and Delicious Valentine’s Cakes do we have on order already? I thought the form said one hundred and twelve, but that has to be a typo, right?”
“No! It isn’t!” Naomi practically skips behind the counter in excitement. “I sold fifty more yesterday afternoon.”
“Wow!” My eyes go wide. “I mean, it’s a great recipe, but that’s insane.”
Naomi presses a hand to her chest and bats her eyes. “Well, thank you, it’s one of my best, if I do say so myself. But it’s the samples that sold it. That was a great idea. As soon as a customer had a taste, they were hooked.”