I’m about to offer her one of my signature caramel bonbons when she turns to me and whips her knit cap from her head.
“Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.” With that, she crosses her arms over her chest and stares me down as if she’d just challenged me to a duel.
Such a little tiger. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face as I step toward her, invading her space and catching the vanilla scent of her lotion. Her breath hitches as I lean toward her, and her gaze darts to my lips.
“So, what would you like to taste first?”
Olive
The nerve. The damn nerve!
Hank backs away and walks around the counter where he begins assembling boxes with his bright pink “Candy” logo across the top. I press my cold gloves to my cheeks to try and push the blush back inside of me. He’d looked like he was about to kiss me! My heart had begun river dancing in my chest, and for a split second, I’d wanted . . . No. I won’t think about it. Hank is the enemy, not someone I want to kiss. Not at all.
“So, what’s your poison?” He turns and places the boxes on the counter between us.
“Just whatever you have is fine.” I try not to look at the swirling lollypops, jars of jellybeans, or rows of frosted cookies. The caramel candy apples with chocolate drizzle almost catch my eye, but I look away before I become ensnared.
He sidesteps to the candy apple display. “Try one.”
“No.” I keep my tone level. “Just pack up whatever you want to donate, and I’ll be on my way.”
He smiles, and butterflies go to war in my stomach. Lightly tanned skin, bright eyes, and dark hair are still my weakness, almost as much as the mouth-watering candy apple he picks up and holds out to me. “Give it a try. I just put these out this afternoon. The apples are tart, and I made the caramel myself.”
I glance at the proffered treat. My sweet tooth demands that I take it, but my will is far stronger. “No, thank you.”
His smile grows, as if he already knew I’d decline. Then he raises the apple to his mouth and takes a bite. The perfectly ripe apple makes a delectably crisp crunch between his teeth. I watch as he licks the stray caramel from his lips, and I wonder just how sweet he’d taste.
“What was that?” He takes another bite.
“Hmm?” Lord help me, but I stare. Watch his Adam’s apple bob and follow the movement down into his flannel shirt right where the tan skin disappears behind the fabric.
He grabs a small plate and sets the rest of the apple down. “You just made a noise is all. Like a high-pitched sigh.”
My face burns bright red. A sigh? I made a noise? “No. I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, you did.” He grins. “Almost as if you’d enjoyed that as much as I did.”
“Can we just get down to business?” I give him my best “serious” tone.
“Sure.” He grabs a pair of tongs and starts arranging cookies in the bottom of the first box. “Can I ask you something?”
I itch to say no, but manners win out. “Yes.”
He stops what he’s doing and pierces me with his green stunners. “Why did you fight my shop so hard?”
Damn. I take a deep breath and pretend to be thinking over his question. Really, I’m just trying to figure out how to evade the question altogether. Nothing comes to mind.
He continues selecting goodies for the boxes. “I mean, surgeon general literature from the eighties and lab rat studies on the effects of sugar?” He laughs, the sound warming me far more than it should. “You really went all out. So, why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I shoot a look across the street at my studio. “I run a health and fitness business. You wanted to open a candy shop—a shop that undermines all the good I’m trying to do—right across the street. Of course I fought it.”
He stands and turns his back to me. His broad shoulders fill out the green and blue flannel shirt, and I wonder if he still runs and works out like he used to. When I let my gaze drift down to his jeans that hug his firm ass, I realize yes, yes he still does. My palms begin to sweat, so I strip my gloves off and tuck them into my coat pockets.
He’s doing something behind the counter. I walk closer to see. A single burner shoots an open flame onto the bottom of a small bowl of chocolate. He stirs and then adds a few marshmallows. I watch his wrist flick with each turn of the spoon, his hands expertly creating something delicious as the smell of warm sugar and chocolate fills the air.
“A little something extra on the hazelnut cookies,” he says over his shoulder and then clicks the burner off. With a little flourish, he drizzles the chocolate—now gooey from the marshmallow addition—over the cookies in the bottom of the second box.