Candy’s hips moved, and he groaned. He needed to pick her up into his arms, carry her he-man style. This time, into his bedroom.
As if an internal warning engaged, her stomach rumbled. She giggled, her tongue still gliding over the ticklish inside of his lip.
He slowed the kiss and pulled back, looked into her eyes, and murmured, “Pancakes first?”
“Yes, please.” Her shining eyes and perfect smile hit him like a snowball to the head.
This was Candy. The little girl he’d teased and talked with and grown to care about. Their occasional kitchen visits had ended three years later when he’d left for prep school. His parents had downsized to a smaller apartment, and Marie had been let go. His gut squeezed when he recalled his distraught reaction to losing Marie—and Candy.
Anger surged when he remembered his father’s dismissal of Mitch’s feelings, with parental advice to move on, Michael. A phrase—and name—he would come to detest.
Mitch released her but bent for one more quick kiss. “Come on. Let's get something into that empty belly of yours.” Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he guided her to the kitchen. “Fresh blueberries in your pancakes?”
Grinning up at him, she taunted, “You don't have blueberries. It’s the middle of winter.”
He laughed. “I made a run to Atlanta before Christmas. Blueberries. Real maple syrup. Butter.”
Her stomach rumbled again. “Stop.” She put her hand on her stomach. “I'm going to start drooling like Major.”
At the sound of his name, Major trotted into the kitchen and sat at Candy’s feet.
After a few seconds, she bent and patted his head. Awkwardly, but at least she wasn’t cringing from the dog anymore.
“What about you, boy? Do you like blueberries in your pancakes?”
His tail swished back and forth across the floor like a windshield wiper in a deluge.
Mitch watched the two of them, startled by the warmth spreading from his heart, creeping its way through his chest to disrupt his breathing. Was it the homey feeling of a sexy woman wearing his clothes and petting his dog? Or was it Candy in particular who invoked some kind of freakishly un-macho nesting instinct in him?
She stood and looked at her hand as if it might sport hair, fleas, ticks, and assorted microscopic health hazards. Looking at him, she forced a smile and went to the sink, taking care to wash away at least one layer of skin.
He grinned and headed to the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, and the promised blueberries. From the cabinet he hauled down flour, baking powder, and salt.
Candy sidled up next to him. “You're making them from scratch?”
“Can't afford the boxed mix on my salary.”
Her smile wavered. Was she feeling sorry for him? Or did she suddenly realize she’d been flirting with a man who hovered on the low end of middle-class?
He handed her a bowl and a fork. “Two eggs. Beaten.”
“Yes, sir.” She took the bowl and the egg carton to the island and got cracking.
Digging in a drawer for measuring spoons and cups, he asked, “Do you cook?”
“I used to. My mom taught me. But lately, I haven’t had time.” She beat the eggs with the fork. “Do you cook a lot?”
“No. I work long days and eat sandwiches, mostly.” Up until ten years ago, he’d never even turned on a stove. His parents employed a cook, and when Mitch had moved out to attend college, they’d sent the cook to his on-campus apartment four times a week to prepare meals for him.
When he joined the family business, he hired a full-time chef, equipped to cater his weekly client dinner parties, Saturday evening social gatherings, and noon staff meetings.
Scraping something crusty out of the one-cup measure, he smirked. Times had sure changed. Circumstances reversed. For both of them. They’d each gone from one extreme to the other.
He glanced at his unexpected guest. How, and when, would he tell her who he really was? Did he even have to tell her? Or would this be just a hit-and-run for Ms. Candy Wright? The thought spiked his blood pressure.
Chapter Ten – Boxers or Briefs?
by Vonnie Davis
Candy took her first bite of Mitch’s homemade blueberry pancakes and closed her eyes. Heaven. Oh my God, curl-my-toes-in-his-socks heaven. He’d even heated the bottle of syrup in a pan of hot water. The sweetness of the warm syrup and tartness of the blueberries struggled for dominance on her tongue. She moaned, opened her eyes, and looked into inquisitive blue ones.
“Well?” His lips twitched. “What do you think?”
She forked in another bite, broke a cardinal rule, and talked with her mouth full. “I think you should come to New York and work for me.”
A faint redness crept up his neck, and he stilled.
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking as soon as the storm’s over, I’ll take you back to New York and set you up as my house boy. You can clean—” She took another bite of pancake. “—cook, and iron my blouses. How are you at catering parties? I throw them from time to time for The Wright Way.” She cut another bite of pancake.
“Candy?” His voice was deathly quiet.
She gazed into stormy blue eyes that held an emotion she couldn’t identify. A bubble of laughter broke from her chest. “I was just teasing.”
He rubbed his temples. “You know what would be great?”
Her giggles ebbed. “What?”
“If you would shut up and eat.”
Not very gentlemanly, but she deserved it. She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I should just…”
“I guess you should just eat.” Mitch extended a pancake to the dog who whined beside him. “You irritate me sometimes.”
“Really? Do you have a short fuse?” What put that odd look on his face? “I’m sorry. I was joking. Don’t get your briefs in a twist.”
He blinked twice. “I don’t wear briefs.”
She forked in another bite and eyed the last pancake on the platter. “Ah, a boxer kind of guy.”
Mitch raised his mug and took a long gulp. She watched his throat move and wondered what would happen if she snaked the tip of her tongue over his Adam’s apple and down his torso. Good Lord, what had come over her? Being sexually aggressive had never been her style. She eyed that last pancake again. Maybe she'd better resist. Evidently blueberries were an aphrodisiac.
“Don’t wear boxers either.” He rose and carried his dirty dishes to the sink.
Her gaze followed his very magnificent behind.
He turned and came back for more dirty dishes. Plates in hand, he leaned over and placed his lips next to her ear. An involuntary shudder went through her.
“Commando all the way, baby,” he whispered.
Candy’s gulp sounded like a gong in the silent kitchen. He was naked under those jeans? Her eyes darted around the small kitchen, trying to focus on anything but his crotch. Her tummy did its fluttery thing and her nipples evidently loved the commando visual because they were certainly standing at attention.
Mitch poured hot water into the sink and started washing dishes.
“I’ll wash.” She stood, attempting to regain control of her sensually overloaded system. “You cooked. I’ll wash.”
“Are you sure you know how?” His voice sounded strained, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
While Mitch headed outside to the woodpile, Candy stood at the sink and gazed out the window. Major jumped through the snowdrifts blown deep by the wind. His tongue lolled out, catching snowflakes. The dog was like a spoiled child. She shook her head and rinsed off the silverware. Her gaze cut to Mitch who'd loaded his arms with wood. The man was moody today. Maybe cabin fever was getting to him the same as it was with her. Still, if he remained silent and surly, their snow prison could get mighty uncomfortable. Which was why she was better off alone. Bad enough she had to deal with men flexing their egos at work; there was no way she would happily endure one in her private life.
Michael. The old memory
resurfaced every time she did dishes. She smiled. A cherished memory she unfolded and relived when emotional needs upset her. How many times had she taken out the few memories she had of Michael, then folded them into a compact square and tucked them back into her heart?
Her memories were from a fragile time in a girl’s life, when hormones were just beginning to bud. Emotions bounced from one extreme to another. She'd been too old for childishly familiar things and not old enough for others. And, oh how she’d missed Vermont. Making friends in Manhattan was next to impossible, except for Michael. While she washed dishes, the son of her mother’s employer kept her company. He had a way of getting her to talk about herself, making her believe he was truly interested. Endearing qualities in a gangly kid—kind, gentle, caring, and incredibly honest.
Then suddenly Michael was gone from her life.
Twin tears tumbled down her cheeks.
For some reason, that loss left scars as deep as the loss of her childhood home and watching her mother work herself into exhaustion cleaning houses for rich people.
The door opened and Major bounded in, shaking off snow. Her vision was tear-blurred when she looked at Mitch.
“Candy?” He bent to lay the logs on the floor and removed his gloves, tossing them onto the pile of wood. “What’s wrong?” He approached and cupped her face in his hands.
“N…nothing.” She sounded like a needy woman. Damn, grow a backbone here.
He leaned in and kissed away her tears. “Honey,” he breathed on a moan as his lips covered hers. “I didn't mean to snap at you. I…I’ve got a lot going on right now. Forgive me?”
His kisses grew deeper, more passionate. Tender nips at her lips turned to mind-numbing kisses that made her system do twitchy things. She wrapped her arms around his neck and poured all her emotion into the kiss. For a brief few seconds she wondered just whom she was kissing—Mitch Johnson or Michael Crawford, III?
Chapter Eleven – The Temperature is Hot and Rising
by Vonnie Davis
The woman had a mouth made for kissing. A man could live happy the rest of his life feasting on her sweet mouth. She was slowly driving him mad. A moan escaped from somewhere deep inside her. In response, he gently bit her lower lip and soothed it with his tongue.
Her wide eyes hazed with passion. “Mi…Mitch,” she murmured against his lips.
Did she say, My Mitch? Had he heard her correctly? He fisted his hands in her hair and blazed a trail of kisses down the side of her face and neck. “You’d better stop me while you can. Tell me to stop, Candy.”
She shook her head, her eyes hiding her emotions.
What was she thinking? Was she afraid to say no?
“What I'd really like…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. Slowly she unzipped his jacket and tugged off his knitted cap. “Pick up that wood and stoke the fire in the fireplace. Then take me to the bedroom and stoke mine.”
Did she mean it? His hands slipped under her shirt and found warm skin. Her lips parted as she leaned forward and bit his earlobe. Don’t analyze it, man. Just take her to bed. Slaking his needs—needs she’d stirred to a fevered pitch—was certainly how he wanted to spend the day. The entire day, because once wouldn’t be enough.
With his eyes locked on hers, he stepped back. “If you’re serious, my bedroom is…”
“I know where your bedroom is.” Her eyes were shadowed, full of mystery and emotion he didn’t understand.
His hands shook, and he clenched them on his hips. Yes, he wanted her. In some ways he always had. He frowned at the realization. Mitch had been fifteen, a skinny kid who hadn’t had his growth spurt yet, the last time he saw Candy. His hair was clipped short and tight the way his father liked it. Yet, even at that young age, there’d been something about Candy that called to him. When he visited her in the kitchen, there was a rightness about their time together.
He couldn’t put a label on it. As he stood in front of the adult Candy with her lips swollen from his kisses and her eyes heavy-lidded with passion, he couldn’t describe how the little Candy Wright he'd known so long ago made him feel. Needy. And hell, with her here in his house, she brought it all back. The admission scared the beejeesus out of him.
If she knew who he really was, would she still want him?
“Don’t start anything you don’t plan on finishing. And don’t crawl into my bed if you’re going to regret it later.”
“No promises. No regrets. And definitely no entanglements.” She stepped out of his arms and headed for his bedroom. “Works for me.”
For some reason her remarks grated on his nerves. Bugged the hell out of him. He stalked into the living room and stoked the fireplace, filling it with wood. His gaze drifted in the direction of the bedroom. “Works for me,” he growled in a mocking tone. She was waiting for him. Was she taking off her clothes? He hardened at the thought. Would she be snuggled under his sheets, waiting for him to come to her?
Major nuzzled his hand. He scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Well, how does it feel to have a master who’s nothing more than a booty call?”
The dog whined.
****
Murky afternoon light filtered through the windows of the bedroom when Candy woke. The snow wasn't coming down as heavily. Was the storm over? She stretched under the sheets and comforter, her naked skin sliding decadently across the smoothness. The shower was running, and Mitch was singing. Somehow it all felt right, her being here in his big bed with her skin still humming from his touch, and her system singing its own sultry love song.
He’d come to her like a man possessed, almost as if he were angry. Then he turned tender, his sweetness nearly breaking her heart. She’d never been loved like that, as if she were someone precious. For this one morning, she needed to feel cherished. She needed to feel like someone truly cared.
Mitch had made love to her four times. She stretched again, lifting the sheet to cover her mouth as she grinned with feminine satisfaction.
The things that man did to her. Closing her eyes, she felt heat bloom in her cheeks. She wasn’t aggressive. Normally she dated a man for weeks before sleeping with him, so why… A frown wrinkled her brow. Something about Mitch was different. Familiar, or so it seemed when she caved in to the need to be closer to him.
The shower turned off, but the singing continued. He had a nice voice. The man had a nice everything. She just needed to focus on the fact that this was all temporary. A sexual interlude in the middle of a raging blizzard. How foolish am I for wanting something more permanent?
When the bedroom door opened, Major shot in around Mitch and hopped onto the bed. The dog gave her one canine kiss before turning around twice and flopping onto the comforter with a contented sigh.
A towel hugged Mitch’s waist. He was lean and well-muscled. Those six-pack abs weren’t airbrushed on. She knew all too well the power behind them. He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked with hers, and leaned down for a kiss.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, affectionate.
“Hey, yourself.”
He nuzzled her neck, his wet hair tickling her. “We missed lunch. Hungry?”
She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Typical male. As soon as the bottom half of your anatomy is taken care of, thoughts move above the belt.”
His hand rubbed over her breast. “And just how many typical males am I going to have to fend off to keep you for myself?” His teeth grazed the column of her neck.
Fear crept into the bed and snuggled between them. “Mitch, we said no promises, no regrets, and for sure, no entanglements.” Her life was in New York. “I’ll be leaving as soon as the roads are clear. You know that.”
He stood and went to the other side of the bed, yanked his jeans off the floor, and stepped into them. The zipper echoed in the silent room. “So what the hell was this? Just some meaningless fu—”
“Don’t use that tone with me. Or that kind of language, either.” She sat up in the bed and tugged t
he sheets around her neck. “It was what it was.”
He gritted his teeth. “Maybe you could be more specific.”
What did he want from her? Her heart clenched in her chest. They lived two different lifestyles hundreds of miles apart. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “It was an amazing afternoon between two consenting adults.”
He tugged on a turtleneck and snagged a pair of clean socks from a drawer. He put on his socks and boots in silence. “Never figured you for a user, Candy.” Standing, he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Twelve – Trouble in Paradise
by Laura Breck
Candy flinched at the words Mitch hurled at her. “Never figured you for a user, Candy.” If he hadn’t slammed the bedroom door when he stormed out, she might have responded impetuously, shouted something just as hurtful. Something she would have regretted.
She hadn’t risen to a high position in the corporate world by overreacting emotionally. Her psychology classes taught her to illuminate, evaluate, and communicate. And that's just what she was going to do.
Using every pillow on the bed to prop herself up against the headboard, she took a deep breath.
Mitch hadn’t liked her flippant attitude. And it wasn’t that she didn’t care… If she let herself, she’d care more than was smart—or safe. Together, they’d been spectacular. But they barely knew one another. Hell, they’d spent more time sniping at each other than cooing and sighing.
It had to be loneliness. Out here in the woods, isolated and leading a rustic lifestyle, he’d latched onto her as a respite from his solitary existence.
Her amateur psychoanalysis made perfect sense. She grinned. Now she needed to test it on him and see if she could smooth out the wrinkles in their temporary situation.
After digging through his drawers and closet, she slipped into fresh backwoodsman apparel. Another flannel shirt, this time green, and a pair of black sweats.
Padding barefoot to the bedroom door, she inched it open and listened. Nothing. She headed down the hall to her room but stopped when she spotted him at his computer.