He hadn’t been a hallucinogenic expression of a fevered imagination. And he had found her.
The twist of attraction turned into something else, just for a moment. A strange kind of panic that she hadn’t confronted for a long time. That somehow this man had found out who she was, had tracked her down.
No. That’s not it. Even if he did, that doesn’t make him crazy. It doesn’t.
And more than likely he was just here for a piece of pie. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to look directly at him. Which was... Wow. He was hotter than she remembered. And that was saying something. She had first spotted him in the dim light of the bar, with a healthy amount of space between them.
Now, well, now the daylight was bright, and he was very close. And he was magnificent. The way that black T-shirt hugged all those muscles bordered on obscene, his dark green eyes like the deep of the forest beckoning her to draw close. Except, unlike the forest, his eyes didn’t promise solitude and inner peace. No, it was something much more carnal. Or maybe that was just her aforementioned overheated imagination.
His jaw was covered by a neatly trimmed dark beard, and she would normally have said she wasn’t a huge fan, but something about the beard on him was like flaunting an excess of testosterone. And she was in a very testosterone-starved state. So it was like stumbling onto water in a desert.
Of course, all that hyperbole was simply that. His eyes weren’t actually promising her anything; in fact, his expression was blank. And she realized that while he might look sexier to her today than he had that night, she might look unrecognizable to him.
Last night she had been wearing an outfit that at least hinted at the fact that she had a female figure. And she’d had makeup on, plus she’d gone to the effort to straighten her mass of auburn hair. Today, it was its glorious frizzy self, piled on top of her head, half captured in a rubber band, half pinned down with a pen. And as for makeup... Well, on days when she had to be at the bakery early that was just not a happening thing.
Her apron disguised her figure, and beneath it, the button-up striped shirt that she had tucked into her jeans wasn’t exactly vixen wear.
“Can I... Can I help you?” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and found herself tilting her head to the side, her body apparently calling on all of the flirtation skills it hadn’t used since she was eighteen years old.
Very immature, underdeveloped skills.
Suddenly, her lips felt dry, so she had to lick them. And when she did, heat flared in those forest green eyes that made her think maybe he did recognize her. Or, if he didn’t, maybe his body did. Just like hers recognized his. Oh, Lord.
“Yes,” he said, his voice much more... Taciturn than she had imagined it might be. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she had built something of a narrative around him. Brooding, certainly, because he had most definitely been brooding a little bit in the bar, but she had imagined he might flirt with a lazy drawl. Of course, it was difficult to tell with one word, but his voice had been clipped. Definitely clipped.
“I have a lot of different pie. I mean, a lot of different kinds. So, if you need suggestions. Or a list. I can help.”
“I’m not here for pie. I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
WELL, THIS WAS an interesting situation. By which he meant an insane crock of fuckery.
It was the woman from the bar. Right there in the bakery where his daughter worked. Looking even more like someone he wanted to lick all over than she had at Ace’s last night.
Her hair was piled on top of her head, and he wanted to let it down. She was wearing an apron, which was sexy for some strange reason he didn’t even want to parse. And she had flour on her nose. He wanted to kick everybody in the bakery out. Wanted to lock the doors and back her up against one of the rough brick walls and take her right there, hard and fast.
And that was thoroughly incongruous with his usual mind-set. And with the fact that even if he did usher everybody out of the dining area, and lock the door, his daughter would probably still be in the back somewhere. Which was something he really needed to remember.
“Your daughter?” The woman blinked, biting her lower lip, which he felt all the way down in his own body.
“Violet. Violet Donnelly.”
A realization seemed to hit her on an indrawn breath. The reason he’d looked familiar when she’d seen him in the bar. He was a Donnelly. “Right. Of course.” She shook her head. “Of course. She is off about now. I’ll go get her.”
“Is your boss back there?” He didn’t know why he had stopped her, mostly because he wanted to delay her leaving just a second. For what, he didn’t know. Torturing himself? Maybe he was into that now. He wouldn’t know. It had been so long since he had explored exactly what he was into, he had forgotten.
“My boss?”
“Yes. The owner of the bakery? Alison something? I haven’t had a chance to meet her yet, and I thought maybe I would.”
“I’m Alison something,” she said, her tone dry, her expression strangely resigned. “Alison Davis, actually.”
Heat and irritation coiled in his stomach, creating a molten ball that he thought might explode. “You own the bakery.”
She didn’t look a day over twenty-five to him, much less old enough to own what appeared to be a successfully established business.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. Is that surprising?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Again, he wasn’t sure why he was submitting to the banter. He should just tell her to go get Violet. Of course, she was responsible for his daughter’s paycheck and, more than that, the only activity she had in town. Which was the only thing keeping Violet from going completely feral.
“Because. You look too young to own a bakery. Not exactly what I pictured. Except for the flour on your nose.”
She wrinkled said facial feature, reaching up and brushing at it with her fingertips. “It’s powdered sugar,” she responded.
It took everything in him to keep from commenting on the fact that that sounded even more appealing. Because it would be even sweeter if he tasted her skin.
Holy hell. He was in the middle of some kind of severe sexual psychosis. He had been married for years. Which meant that the time of seeing random women on the street as sexual possibilities was long past. His default was not to see women as potential partners.
It still was, he supposed. This...aberration was something to do with her. And she was his daughter’s boss. Which was about the most inappropriate thing he could think of.
“Well,” he said, “that’s important to know.”
“In the interest of being strictly correct, yes.”
“I’m nothing if not
