Amusement rose from his smile all the way to his eyes. “I feel like I should apologize. But I’m not sure about which part. Asking you to lie for me, or realizing I’m in love with you.”
Her insides melted a little more. “Zane—”
“Hear me out.” He stepped closer, his masculine scent engulfing her as he touched her cheek. “It was wrong of me to ask you to lie, but if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have spent this time together. And there’s no way in hell I’ll apologize for my feelings.”
His touch was a heady invitation, drawing the truth like a serum. “I don’t want an apology.”
He lowered his chin in that devastatingly alluring way he had, and she fought the urge to go up on her toes and press her lips to his. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his mouth, remembering the firm press of it against hers, the openmouthed kisses he lavished on her neck, her breasts. Between my legs. Her body shuddered with the tantalizing memory.
“Are you going to tell me what you do want?”
His voice pulled her from her reverie. Feeling a little unsteady, and aware of the minutes ticking by, she headed into the kitchen. Her lair. The only place she felt grounded and confident despite whatever chaos went on around her. She began setting out mixing bowls and ingredients for Louie’s cake.
Zane followed her in. “Last night was agony, babe. I’ve gone over this a hundred times, trying to figure out where I went wrong.”
“Where we both went wrong.” She carried the flour to the counter and pulled a measuring cup out from beneath.
“Bullshit, Wills.” He waved at the counter. “How can I help with this?”
She pointed to the refrigerator. “Think you can measure a cup of milk and break six eggs into this?” She pushed a bowl across the counter and began measuring the flour.
“I’m on it.” He tugged the fridge open. “I’m always happy to handle your jugs.”
“Only you could joke right now.” She tried to sound serious, but it rode out on another laugh.
“I wasn’t joking.” He smirked, and God help her, she loved his naughtiness. “Clearly this was my fault. One minute you were in my arms, and then I opened my big mouth and you were gone.”
She dumped the flour into the bowl and leaned over the counter, tapping the sides of the vanilla and almond extract bottles over his bowl. Her ring spun on her finger, scratching the inside of her middle finger again. She turned it right side up, and the damn thing spun again.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she snapped, annoyed with the ring, not him. She drew in a calming breath. “Don’t you think there’s a chance you’re just in the moment? And when the beautiful actresses and the rest of your Hollywood life roll into town, you’re going to realize I’m just a small-town girl who will never be what you’re used to?”
He looked up from where he was cracking eggs into a bowl with a serious expression. “No.”
“When you’re done filming, your life will get away from you again, and regardless of what you might or might not feel for me—”
“Jesus, Willow.” He came around the counter with a wolfish look in his eyes. “These are my feelings. I know what I feel, and I know what you feel, because I see it in your eyes. I feel it in your touch.” His voice went low, unleashing a whirl of passion in the pit of her stomach. She hated—and loved—that he had that effect on her with nothing more than his voice. No wonder his touch turned her inside out.
“You look at me like I’m a bucket of frosting and you want to dive in.” He stepped closer, stealing all the air from her lungs. “I gave up too easily back then. I should have said ‘fuck the guy’ you brought home and done this—”
His mouth collided with hers, as punishing and angry as it was sweet and provocative. Shivers of desire sliced through her as he delved deeper, crushing her to him. Her thoughts fragmented, and every ounce of her thrummed to life, pressing into him, craving more than one kiss could ever give. His hands circled her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. He pushed between her legs, intensifying his possession and their kiss. Jesus, this kiss. It was a kiss for her hungry soul to melt into—and melt she did. He was an eagle soaring through the sky, and she was weightless, entranced by his intensity, completely and utterly lost in him.
He tore his mouth away, and she touched her burning lips.
“Yeah,” she whispered without thought. “You should have done that.”
“Then stop pushing me away and let me show you the man I can be, the man I will be for you.”
“You can try,” she said, struggling to beat her dizzying brain into submission. “But I’m warning you. I won’t fall for you just because you set my body on fire.”
He waggled his brows and pulled her closer, until she felt his hardness against her center. “I set your body on fire?”
“Oven,” she said to distract herself from the delicious man rubbing against her like a cat. She was so into him, poor Louie would never get his cake. “I need to heat up the oven.”
“I’m all for getting heated up.” He dipped his head, ravishing her neck with openmouthed kisses.
“Z—” We’re never going to finish baking Louie’s cake. She was pretty sure the words never made it from her brain to his ears.
He took her in another plundering kiss, chasing away more of her brain cells.
“Louie’s cake,” she panted out between kisses. “Need to bake it.”
“You bake, baby.” He lifted her from the counter and set her feet on the ground, then turned her toward the counter. He ground his hard length against her ass. “I’ll just . . .” He unbuttoned her jeans, slowly unzipping them from behind. “You’d better get mixing, or prepping, or whatever it is that needs to be done to get that little guy’s cake in the oven.”
She scrambled for the ingredients, trying to remember where she’d left off as he pushed his hand down the front of her pants, teasing her and nibbling on the back of her neck. She pressed her palms to the counter, trying to catch her breath. It was a losing endeavor.
“Finish up, sweet girl, so your big guy’s cake can get in your oven.”
She’d never made a cake so fast in all her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WILLOW PUSHED OPEN the front door to Bridgette’s cottage-style home later that afternoon and inhaled the scent of home-cooked meals, mommy hugs, and little-boy smiles. The hardwood floors were spotless, the carpets freshly vacuumed. Balloons were tied to each banister, and a colorful birthday banner hung across the foyer. Bridgette was everything Willow wasn’t, from her lithe figure and always perfectly brushed blond hair of various shades to her careful and methodical tendencies. She would make sure Louie’s birthday party—as she did his life—was perfectly orchestrated to ensure his happiness and his safety.
“Hello?” Willow called out. “Bridge? Where’s the birthday boy?”
“Upstairs, Auntie Willow!” Louie hollered. “We’re getting ready for my party!”