by Elise Faber
“I thought the same,” he said, stepping closer, moving directly into the line of fire. “I woke up that morning, not psyched to go to work for the first time but fucking anxious to get it over with so I could get back to you. I like you, Misty. A lot more than I should probably, considering that we’ve had one date and you totaled my car.”
Her cheeks went pink.
“I should have left a note or woken you up,” he said, cupping her cheek, moving slowly so as not to startle her. “But I swear, I thought that I’d told you I was going to be away for a couple of weeks. I—” He inhaled, released it slowly. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “If you knew how I grew up, you would know I would never do that.”
She softened in his hold, her eyes gentling. “What happened when you were growing up?”
He wove his fingers into her hair, feeling the silk drift over his skin, and gave it to her. Because it was the only way. “You know a little of what my dad did with the FBI and a couple of other organizations he can’t talk about, but I don’t know if you knew he worked deep undercover. He’d be gone for months, and we didn’t know when he would make it home.”
Sympathy softened the lines of her face. “That must have been hard.”
“It was normal,” he said with a shrug, “and it was awesome, knowing my dad was a superhero, kind of what some woman thinks of me.”
A gentle smile.
“But then he got hurt. Really hurt, and suddenly…it wasn’t awesome.”
That smile faded. “It was scary.”
“Yeah.”
Her hand smoothed over his chest.
“It rocked my world,” he admitted. “I thought he was invincible, and when he almost died, it changed everything. He got better, of course”—since he was still around and healthy and whole—“but it was touch and go there for a while, and when he went back to working undercover, went back to being away, I worried myself sick, literally sick, every single time he was gone.”
“Oh, honey,” she whispered.
“My mom finally dragged me to a therapist to talk shit out, and it got better, but”—he brought her closer—“I would never leave someone, especially someone I care about, hanging like that.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I honestly thought that we’d talked about it, otherwise I would have woken you up and—”
“It’s okay,” she murmured, stroking his jaw. “I get it now.”
He studied her face, turned over her words in his mind, but he didn’t detect anything in them aside from the truth, and considering he made a lot of his living from being able to discern fact from bullshit, that told him a lot.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said.
“It’s okay.” Her lips curved. “I’m sorry I threw yarn at you.”
Chance ran his thumb along that curve. “I’m not. Now you’ve impressed me with your aim, so I have something else to admire about you.” She giggled and he bent, snagged the basket she’d been holding when he’d walked into the shop. “So, are you going to tell me the truth or not?”
Her expression sobered. “About wh-what?” she stuttered.
He couldn’t hold back his grin, even though he tried to by burying his face in her throat, flicking his tongue over the skin. “About your obsession with wicker?”
She was still.
So still for a heartbeat.
And then she swatted at his shoulder. “Just for that, I’m not going to give you any of the cupcakes I have to bake tonight.”
His head straightened. “Cupcakes?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I have to make cupcakes for the bake sale at the elementary school tomorrow, chocolate fudge with chocolate buttercream frosting.”
His stomach rumbled. “I’m an excellent taste tester.”
“Uh-uh,” she began saying, shaking her head. “Not going to change my mind. Me and my wicker obsession are going to go home alone, bake my cupcakes, and ignore the man who clearly doesn’t understand the finer arts of woven materials.”
He kissed her.
No holds barred. Lots of tongue and teeth and long enough for his lungs to start burning.
“I’ll buy you dinner,” he said when he managed to pull away. “You make the cupcakes. I eat one, just to make sure they’re not poisoned.”
Misty’s eyes flew open.
Her lips parted.
Her head began to shake.
Then she busted out laughing.
It was the best thing he’d heard in two weeks.
11
Double Fudge
Misty
He swiped a finger in the bowl in front of her and gave her a smile that was so “aw shucks” that she didn’t smack him with the whisk she was using to make the frosting.
“You better have washed your hands,” she warned.
“I did.”
He reached again, this time with another finger (as in one of the other nine fingers that hadn’t been in his mouth).
But this time, she swatted him.
“No more,” she ordered. “You’ll ruin your dinner.”
“I promise you, I won’t,” he said. “I could bathe in that frosting.”
She put down her whisk and set up her piping bag in a glass (for easy filling). “Make yourself useful,” she said, seeing him reach for the bowl again as if she couldn’t see him, “and hold that bowl for me. If you keep your fingers out of it until I get the frosting in the bag, you can lick it.”
“Really?”
A chuckle bubbled up in her throat. “Why do you sound like a ten-year-old little boy?”
“Because I feel like one?” he said. “My mom had six of us to take care of, and all of us had hollow legs, including Soph. She didn’t have time to make anything from scratch, least of all cupcakes and frosting.”
“Never?” Misty asked.
“You have five boys and one daughter, and you think you’d have time to be Betty Crocker?”
“I think I’d barely have time to sleep,” she said, nodding at him to grip the bowl, one hand on the scraper the other on the opposite side of the plastic to get some purchase for scooping out the frosting. “Let alone have time to worry about making anything from scratch.”
“Then you and my mom would be on the same page,” he said.
Also, this just in, one bonus to him holding the bowl for her scraping was that he was close. Really close.
Close enough that she could smell him—all man and spice—feel the warmth from his body—and that was nice—and…well, just being close to him was really freaking great.
And yes, she knew that didn’t go well with her rhyming theme.
But he was close.
She liked him close.
And she believed him when he said that he had meant to tell her that he’d be gone for a couple of weeks. Not just because of the fact that he was Soph’s brother and wouldn’t want to complicate things between their families, but because his words had been true, his expression pained when she’d told him he’d hurt her.
Maybe he was an Oscar-worthy actor.
But she didn’t think he could fake something like that, didn’t think he would have shared the story he had, if he wasn’t telling the truth.
So, she was going to let it go.
Same as she had let the frosting stealing go.
Plus, he’d been genuinely surprised she was hurt when he’d come into the shop. She’d watched his smile melt away by her reaction—aka that of a pissed-off female—seen the confusion on his face. It was just that she’d been too furious to clearly track it before.
And the past couple of hours had been like their date.
Easy.
Perfect.
He’d helped her pick up the yarn she’d launched at him, righted the basket she’d dropped before loading it onto the proper shelf. Then they’d worked together to shelve the rest of her order—well, he’d taken care of that so she didn’t have to get the step ladder from the back, and she’d put together the packets of materials sh
e needed for the class she was teaching the following afternoon (an after-school session with some local Cub Scouts—yes, Cub Scouts, because their den leader was the shit and when one of the boys had expressed an interest in knitting, she hadn’t made it a boy or girl thing—though there were boys and girls in the den Misty was teaching the next day—she’d just called Misty, set up a den meeting at the shop, and now the kids were going to learn something they might not have otherwise been exposed to).
After she locked up and closed out her cash drawer, putting the contents in the safe, he’d followed her back to her place then had pulled out his cell, and ordered up dinner. Also, side note, the man was a freaking master—he’d offered her three choices and let her pick, not leading with just, “What do you want to eat?” He’d given her concrete options that hadn’t made her feel weird or bossy about making a selection.
Then he’d followed her orders in the kitchen.
Which were basically to stand there and look pretty.
Okay, they’d been “Stand there and look pretty.”
So, he had—or at least, he had propped himself on the counter and watched her as she whipped up a double batch of her chocolate fudge cupcakes.
They were cooling on racks.
She had finished with the frosting.
They were waiting for their food to be delivered.
And not once had he seemed impatient, or like he wanted to be someplace else. Not once had he seemed anything other than interested in her. It was…addicting.
“Tell me about these cupcakes.”
Brows drawing together, she glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Why’d they ask you to make them?”
She smiled. “My friend Shannon substitute teaches at the elementary school on occasion. She used to teach third grade but only fills in if they’re in a pinch now. Her daughter, however, is a full-time Dragon and is all in on the current fundraiser. They’re raising money for a new playground. She likes my cupcakes.” Misty buffed her knuckles on her collarbone over her shirt. “Just saying, everyone loves my cupcakes. So anyway, she asked. I like kids. I want them to have a new playground, so I’m making them.”
“How much do they sell for?”
“Two bucks each.”
His brows lifted. “That’s gonna take a lot of cake.”
More laughter in her throat, curving her lips as she guided him into putting the bowl down. He set it in the sink but didn’t move away, leaning a hip against the counter next to her while scooping up more frosting on his finger and licking it up. She tore her eyes away—because seriously, that tongue was a glorious thing—and focused on what he said. “That is true. But really the bake sale on a whole is just an excuse to sugar up the kids, turn them loose with their friends, and then con the parents into B.S.ing, getting competitive, and spending money at the silent auction.”
“So, cake, competition, and then more cake.”
“Of the monetary variety?”
He winked. “Exactly.”
Grinning, she lifted the now-filled piping bag out of the glass, twisting the end to seal it up, and headed to the racks of cupcakes. After checking to make sure they were cool, she started piping large swirls on top.
Chance fell quiet.
Or maybe she did, getting into the rhythm of icing the cupcakes.
Distantly, she heard the doorbell ring, heard Chance’s soft, “I’ll get it,” before his footsteps drifted away. But she was firmly into her piping bag, getting those swirls perfect, putting the perfect pinch of sprinkles on top.
Then she was done.
Rolling her shoulders, she glanced around the kitchen and found it quiet and empty. The lights were on, but the counter Chance had been propping up was empty.
She figured he was still getting the food or setting it out—it didn’t take that long to ice four dozen cupcakes. Though, she’d made five because she wasn’t sure how many he would eat. After pulling out her cupcake carriers, she quickly loaded them up, stacking them safely in her fridge. They took up most of the open space, but that was okay. She hadn’t had a chance to go to the grocery store, and with them ordering in food, it wasn’t like she had to cook anything.
Wiping her hands on a towel, she wandered into the hallway.
The light was on in her living room, the TV buzzing quietly. A bag sat on her coffee table, its contents spread out on the surface, though the containers of their food still had the lids on, and Chance…
Chance was on her couch, socked feet propped on the table, and…he was asleep.
12
Cloudless
Chance
He woke up with an aching back and no idea where he was.
Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, his boots had been removed, and a blanket was tucked securely around him.
Blinking, he rubbed a hand over his jaw.
Misty’s place.
Of course.
He’d been tired after the job, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Two weeks in the shit meant that he’d need a couple of days to recuperate. Still, he hadn’t been feeling that fatigued, or not enough to put off seeing Misty, nor did he remember it creeping in during their time together in the kitchen. He’d enjoyed watching her move around her space, talking to herself as she measured, answering his questions, asking him her own.
It had felt comfortable, an extension of that first night.
Of course, he’d wanted to steal that bowl of delicious icing and spend the night smearing it on and then licking it off her body.
But…the children.
The last thing he remembered was grabbing the food delivery, setting it up on the table, and then peeking back into the kitchen to see Misty almost done frosting.
He’d sat on the couch, turned on a hockey game, and had decided to give her a few minutes to finish up.
And now this.
He’d passed out on her.
Fuck.
Thrusting a hand through his hair, he sat up.
“Hey,” came a soft voice.
He saw Misty standing in the kitchen, looking fucking adorable in a short pink robe, her hair in tangles, bringing a mug of coffee to her lips.
“Cloudless,” he murmured, coming to his feet and crossing over to her. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “It’s—” Then that smile faded as he moved closer, snagging the mug from her hands, and plunking it on the counter. “Um—”
He kissed her.
Long and deep and slow, giving her the goodnight kiss he’d intended to leave her with as a good morning one instead.
Releasing her, cock throbbing, lungs sawing, he picked up her mug and handed it back to her.
He turned to the fridge, opened the door, and attempted to catalog the ingredients available for him to cook her breakfast around all the trays of cupcakes.
Fuck, he’d missed out on conning her out of one of those last night, too.
“Chance?”
“Hmm?” He opened a drawer, found a pound of bacon.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Making you breakfast,” he said, grabbing a carton of eggs.
“Um.”
“What?” he asked, turning to face her, setting both on the counter and moving back toward her. She was flushed, that bottom lip swollen, tempting him into kissing her again.
“You’re making me breakfast?” The question was utterly befuddled.
Was it because it was morning and she was always befuddled during this time of day? Or was it because he hadn’t disappeared, was sticking around, and was cooking for her?
“Yes,” he said, deciding that neither of the answers mattered.
He dropped a kiss to the tip of her nose, started rummaging in the drawers below the stove, unearthing a griddle and a frying pan for the eggs.
“Oh.”
She blinked and the befuddlement was gone. “Do you want coffee?”
“Definitely.”
Her lips curved and she moved to a c
upboard, opening it. He got a glance at the shelves, saw they were absolutely crammed full of mismatched coffee mugs, watched as she selected one with apparent care.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked.
A shake of his head. “Just black.”
Ducking, she sidled over to the coffee pot, filled his mug with the black brew, then set it near his elbow as he was cracking eggs.
“You’re good at that.”
He grinned, and since she was close, took the opportunity to kiss her nose again. “Had to get good at a lot of things when I lived on my own.”
“So cooking was one?”
A nod. “Cooking was one.”
“What else was one?”
“Laundry. Cleaning. Making my own doctor’s appointments.”
“Who decided you needed to get good at it?”
His brows drew together. “Me.”
“I don’t believe it.”
His gaze shot to hers, brows lifting now, but she stared back at him with suspicion written into the lines of her face…until her lips began tilting up at the corners. “What?” he asked.
Those lips curved fully; laughter tinkled through the room.
Sunshine and a bright, clear sky.
“What is it, Cloudless?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel before he dropped them to her waist, scooped her up and plunked her on the counter, stepping between her legs.
“It’s just that I’m such a dork.” She shrugged, shook her head. “I was trying to tease you and it’s not really funny, and I’m—” Now she groaned. “I’m just such a dork, laughing at my own jokes and—” She glanced up at his face. “Now I’m not making any sense, I know.”
“What was funny?” A beat. “To you.”
Misty winced. “A man making his own doctor’s appointments…of his own volition.”
Chance went still, then started busting up, dropping his head to her shoulder as his laughter filled the space between them.
“What?” she asked when he caught his breath.
He lifted his head. “Ask me how many times in his life my dad has made his own doctor’s appointments.”
