Her jaw dropped. “How—why—”
“I’m a songwriter, sweet pea. Always looking for the good story.”
“You—you’re—argh.”
He was. He was argh with himself too. Wasn’t always looking to get pissed on a lady’s behalf—he’d done that plenty for Mari Belle, and that hadn’t ever got him anywhere—but the thought of somebody doing Dahlia wrong had Mikey wanting to hit something.
Girl could use her tongue to slice a guy up, but the way she hugged herself made him think she wasn’t all that tough. Maybe a little lonely too.
He propped his hip against the counter and grinned at her. “Go on. Grab another carton of ice cream and tell Uncle Mikey all about it.”
“You’re a dirty old man.”
“Not yet, sweet pea, but I’m working on it.”
She shook her head. “C’mon, Parrot. Dean and Sam, you too. Let’s go back to bed.”
Another flash of lonely welled up and threatened to choke Mikey. “Might could help you find out what’s wrong with that Chocolate Orgasm. Was missing something.”
He was missing something. Was called his brain. Needed to let the lady go.
But she cocked an interested brow at him. “Was it now?”
“Some fudge,” he improvised. Because the ice cream had been dang near perfect.
She studied him a minute, all dark blue eyes and well-deserved suspicion. When he thought she’d turn around and walk away, though, she popped open the freezer.
Mikey leaned forward.
She dug through the cartons and came up with one from the back. Then she grabbed a fresh spoon, popped the top off the carton, and gave him another speculative look.
“Fudge,” she said.
She scooped out a heap of the chocolate ice cream and lifted the spoon to his lips, her deep blue gaze holding him captive. He opened his mouth and hoped if she happened to look down, she wasn’t the type to throw a man out in the cold just because being fed by a woman was a lesser-known personal fetish.
So few women knew how to do it right, but Dahlia was a pro. Her own lips parted as she slid the spoon into his mouth, and Mikey went from half-mast to fully charged. He closed his lips, hers pursed shut, and she pulled the spoon back out. At first, all he tasted was cold, but then chocolate cream trickled over his tongue.
Chocolate cream with a hint of spice and a rich, full burst of pure chocolate heaven. His eyes crossed, then slid closed.
Yeah.
This was the stuff.
With sweet chunks of brownie and fudge and something crunchy.
His taste buds were definitely having an orgasm.
He had to grip the counter behind him to keep steady.
If the woman could do that to him with a spoonful of ice cream in the dead of winter, there was no telling what else she could do.
He opened his eyes.
She was watching him, her arms wrapped around her middle, still holding the spoon and the ice cream. Her eyes flickered—curiosity, uncertainty, desire?—but otherwise, she was completely still.
Waiting.
Mikey cleared his throat. “Don’t know, sweet pea. Gonna need another bite or six to tell you what’s missing.”
Her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. But then she flashed him the sweetest, brightest grin he’d seen all night, and his heart went thumping like a bass drum in a dance song.
“It’s a good thing you talk,” she said, “because otherwise, you might be attractive.” She tossed the spoon in the sink, then swung her pajama-clad hips on around and sashayed right on out of the kitchen.
And she was taking the ice cream with her.
“Hey, wait—”
“You can consider the ice cream your breakfast,” she said over her shoulder. “Thanks for your help. I have to get to work.”
And before Mikey could get control of all the parts of him that had shut down during his chocolate orgasm, she disappeared.
Smart man would’ve thought that was for the best.
Mikey, though, was already planning on staying here another night.
Chapter Three
BY LUNCHTIME, Dahlia was tired but happy. After she’d recovered from watching Mikey’s reaction to the Chocolate Orgasm ice cream, she’d picked the final recipe and now had her whole menu set for her adults-only risqué flavor tasting event, her last-ditch effort to increase sales at The Milked Duck this winter. So far she’d only sold about six tickets for the tasting, despite passing out fliers to all the businesses downtown, but she had a Knot Fest subcommittee meeting tomorrow. She’d volunteered to help Natalie Blue plan the Husband Games, and Nat had a lot of influence around town these days, so Dahlia was hopeful Nat could help encourage people to sign up.
Getting Billy Brenton to come, though, would pack the event. But even if Dahlia could find the nerve to ask Billy, rumors were that he was deep in hiding after the fire last night. Which meant Dahlia’s best bet for getting to him was still Mikey.
He made her nervous.
Not because he was scary. But because he was so danged intriguing.
Dangerous, all things considered. Dahlia wasn’t interested in saving a playboy from his womanizing ways. She needed to save herself first.
The doorbell dinged out the ice cream truck song that Great Aunt Agnes, rest her soul, had installed shortly before she kicked the bucket. Two years, and Dahlia still couldn’t figure out how to change it to a normal ding. She popped up to the front of the store to take care of her customers.
Except it wasn’t customers.
It was Mikey.
She braced herself and girded her loins, which, quite honestly, needed a lot of girding.
Especially when he aimed that smile and those gray eyes at her. He strolled over the black checkered floor, all lanky grace and undeniable sensuality in his leather jacket, cowboy boots, omnipresent ball cap, and new blue jeans. “My favorite ice cream lady,” he said.
Her heart squeezed. Charmer, she reminded herself. And not even a good one at that. “You say that to all the ice cream ladies you meet.”
“Not anymore.” He winked and propped his elbows on the glass counter over the tubs of ice cream. He lifted a suggestive eyebrow. “Was hoping to try some of that Cherry Popper ice cream for lunch.”
“What—how—who—Hush!” No one was supposed to know anything on her adults-only menu until the tasting. Which meant he’d been snooping more in her house.
The only thing more annoying than the smug in his smile was the way her pulse fluttered in response to it.
“Saw a note,” he said casually. “I’m a big fan of cherries.”
“So you’ve said a couple hundred times,” she muttered.
He peered closer, his grin spreading wider to show off a row of perfectly aligned pearly whites. “Why, Miss Dahlia, you’ve been watching BillyVision.”
He knew her name.
Oh, sweet holy ducks, he knew her name. It sounded so exotic in his Southern drawl. Daawl-ya.
“Well, yeah,” she forced out. “Billy’s hot.”
His smile went bigger, and for the first time since last night’s fire, she noticed his eyes crinkling at the edges too. “But I’m better.”
Yes. Yes he—no. No. She didn’t need to add philandering pig to her list of dating disasters.
“I guess,” she said. “Sort of like the mashed potatoes that go with the Thanksgiving turkey.”
The ego in his grin didn’t waver. “So you want to cover me with gravy? I might could be up for that.”
That was not an image that should’ve been sexy. Chocolate syrup, yes. Warm caramel sauce, absolutely. Lumpy brown gravy on Mikey? Ducks help her, it was not totally revolting. She stepped back from the counter and grabbed a rag to wipe at an imaginary ice cream dribble. “You should probably stick to playing music,” she said. “Not sure you could do the gravy justice.”
“Sure I could, sweet pea. I’m a man of many talents.”
No denying that. He could probably make I plugged your toilet and flo
oded your bathroom sound sexy.
“Speaking of talent, how’s Billy today?”
If she hadn’t looked, she would’ve missed the quick brow-furrow and dip in his smile. The smug I-am-a-sex-god look came back quickly, but not quickly enough. “Not near as good as I am,” he said with another wink.
Dahlia ditched the rag to snag a small ice cream cup and a scoop. “Has he found suitable accommodations?”
Mikey ducked his head, but not before Dahlia caught the growly face overcoming his I’m-too-sexy act.
Holy ducks again.
He was acting. Using his overt sex appeal to hide his worry over Billy.
No. No, no, no. She was not getting involved.
But she was dishing up a small scoop of Chocolate Cherry ice cream, which was nothing next to the cherry bourbon Cherry Popper she had stashed in back, but unless Mikey was offering up Billy as entertainment for Dahlia’s adults-only tasting, he didn’t get any Cherry Popper.
“You two have been friends a long time, haven’t you?” she said, exactly like an idiot who was getting involved.
He eyed the ice cream offering. Then her. Then the ice cream. “My whole life,” he said.
With none of the swagger, none of the ego, none of the let’s do the horizontal polka innuendos lingering in the tilt of his lips or the waggle of his brows.
Like he was a regular guy.
Don’t go there, Dahlia.
“You’re worried about him?” She set the cup on the counter beside him. He glanced at it, then looked back at her once more, his gaze searching, serious.
There was a storm brewing in the back of those gray eyes.
The man was more than he let the world believe. And that was a dangerous, dangerous realization.
He dropped his gaze and snagged the ice cream. “He’s working through some stuff. And ice cream ain’t enough to make it better.”
Dahlia leaned closer into the counter. “What kind of stuff?”
“Ain’t my place to talk about it.”
Which meant either he really didn’t want to talk about it, or he was afraid Dahlia would mention it to one of the reporters snooping around town. Not that any of them were interested in stopping in a little ice cream shop on a side street in downtown Bliss on a blustery winter day.
Mikey, though, took the ice cream, holding the cup between his thumb and forefinger, looking for all the world like he wanted to talk about it.
Like whatever was wrong with Billy was wrong with Mikey too, but he couldn’t talk about his own struggles for fear of betraying his friend to tongue-waggers and gossips.
She still shouldn’t go there. Mikey was a player. A man-slut. A master at performing.
But he looked so sad.
And Dahlia had never been able to resist sad. “I let my ex have my life savings to invest in a book recommendation business, but it was all a scam,” she blurted.
Mikey turned those gray eyes on her while he licked his spoon.
Her thighs clenched.
“Sweet pea, you’re about the cutest mess I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
She was such a dingbat. “And you’re very gullible,” she said. “I was trying to make you feel better because you looked sad.”
He took another bite of ice cream, and his eyes slid half-closed.
Her heart joined in a little of that throbbing that kicked up between her legs. Mental note: No more watching Mikey eat ice cream.
Wait.
No more giving Mikey ice cream.
“How long did you know him?” Mikey asked.
“I didn’t. Know him. I was joking.”
“Two weeks, huh? Had that coming.”
“Three months,” Dahlia said. “And my family met him and liked him too, and they’re all very good judges of character.” They were all horrible judges of character, but they were all saving the world in their own ways—her sister at a horse sanctuary in Montana, her parents on a mission in West Africa—and Dahlia couldn’t justify complicating their lives with her little problem. Not when she could solve it herself.
“You let him move in with you right away?” Mikey said.
“No, he had his own apartment.”
“And a job you never saw him at?”
“He worked in Willow Glen. It wasn’t exactly easy to pop by to visit him at his office for lunch. It’s half an hour each way, not including eating time.”
And now she was defending herself to a guy who really didn’t care and who was only using her to make himself feel better about whatever his own problems were.
She was so good at this interpersonal relationship thing. “You need to leave,” she said.
He didn’t budge. “You call the cops?”
“I gave him the money. I can’t call the cops to report my own stupidity.”
Crap. She was going to cry. Right here, in the middle of The Milked Duck, which was worth a crap-ton of money if what she paid in property taxes on it was any indication, and which she couldn’t afford to keep even though she loved it more than she’d ever loved anything she’d done in her whole adult life.
“Please leave,” she said.
But he still didn’t move. Didn’t step back, didn’t even go for another bite of ice cream.
Instead, he stood there watching her fight back the lump in her throat and the sting in her eyes, his head tilted, eyes serious and crinkled in thought. “You see the good in people,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I’m a fool. Go away. The ice cream’s on the house.”
He set the cup on the counter. But when she thought he would reach for his wallet, instead, he brushed his thumb over the moisture that had found its way to her cheek. “World needs more heart,” he said.
Her heart pitter-pattered. “More idiots to prey on,” she muttered.
His lips tightened. He dropped his hand, and this time he pulled a money clip out of his back pocket.
She stepped back and sucked in a big dose of get over yourself, Dahlia. “It’s on the house,” she repeated. “Because you had a rough day.”
“It’s good, but it ain’t Cherry Popper good,” he said.
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
He flashed her another Mikey grin, tossed a twenty on the counter, and then angled toward the door. “You have a nice afternoon, sweet pea. See you tonight.”
And before she could process exactly what all that meant, he’d strolled out.
And she’d completely forgotten to ask him if he and Billy—mostly Billy, of course—would come to her tasting.
MIKEY LEFT The Milked Duck and stepped out into the chilly Northern winter. Dahlia’s cherry fudge ice cream left a cold trail down his throat and behind his ribs, but it was a delicious kind of cold.
A lot different from the windy cold weather.
And Dahlia not asking him for money when it was obvious she needed it—that was a lot different too.
Girl had him confused and curious.
Nice distraction, he had to admit. But now that he had new clothes and had logged into his cloud account and verified his computer had backed up before becoming toast last night, it was time to take care of the more important stuff.
He hunkered into his coat, his fingers aching from the cold, but instead of jumping into the rental truck he’d picked up this morning, he walked around the corner onto the main downtown thoroughfare, eating his ice cream.
The Aisle, locals called it. Lined with bridal boutiques, jewelers, florists, bakeries, and other specialty shops—anything a couple could need to plan a wedding.
Made Mikey shrink in certain important appendages. Wouldn’t go near The Aisle if he weren’t wanting word from Will, whose phone was rolling straight to a message that his voicemail was full. Before calling the big guns—Will’s management team—Mikey decided to check in with a few locals who might know where he was.
He braved a bakery filled with wedding cakes and one of those bridal boutiques full of white fluffy dresses and brides-to-be, but he struck out on finding wor
d of his buddy.
Either Will had left Mikey stranded in a freezing cold place that had a massive wedding cake monument guarding one end of its downtown, or this little town’s gossip express didn’t run on the same tracks that Pickleberry Springs’ grapevine did. Back home, everyone and their grandmother not only would’ve known where Will was, they would’ve worked out a complicated plan to fool any outsiders looking to guess.
On his way back toward his truck, his phone rang.
Even though he should’ve felt some fear at the picture that popped up on the screen, he smiled, then swiped the phone to answer. “Morning, Mari Belle.”
He strolled back down The Aisle, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he savored more of Dahlia’s ice cream.
“Will still isn’t answering my calls,” Mari Belle said, her voice hushed like she didn’t want to be overheard. At the office, Mikey guessed. She insisted on providing for herself, despite what Will offered to do for her, and didn’t like to talk about who she was related to in public places. “Probably my own fault,” she continued. “Paisley heard me practicing my come-to-Jesus talk when I saw that picture of him and you-know-who last weekend, and I think she tipped him off.”
Mikey’s private smile went up a half-notch. Sounded like something Mari Belle’s ten-year-old daughter would do. Girl picked Uncle Will over her momma every time. “Have to be more careful, MB.”
“Oh, shove it, Mikey,” she said good-naturedly. “Is he okay today?”
Mikey passed two women on the street. He caught them eyeing him and gave them a wink and the famous Mikey smile. The older one fanned herself. “Couldn’t rightly say,” he said to Mari Belle.
One of Mari Belle’s legendary sighs wafted through the phone and practically created its own breeze right there in Bliss, eight hundred miles away. “You know where he is?”
“Nope.” Not for sure, anyway. Had a hunch. Didn’t like it. Wasn’t about to invoke the wrath of Mari Belle—beautiful as the show may be—by mentioning the possibility either. Mikey glanced back at the women he’d passed, but they’d stepped off the street. “It was my fault the fire started.” Fire chief had confirmed it a little bit ago. “I left a space heater on.”
Smittened Page 3
