Stirring Up Trouble(9)
Her fingers drummed on the counter. “Do you want me to sign one?”
Any good businessman knew how dangerous it was to give away trade secrets. Yet, as he towered over her by a foot and looked down at her rainbow and guitar tattoos on the soft side of her bicep, all he saw was her innocence staring up at him. Could she really be conspiring with his competition? Guess this was one way to find out.
He shrugged. “I trust you.”
Her brows wrinkled. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Because I definitely don’t trust you.”
CHAPTER 4
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
for such disguise as, haply, shall become
the form of my intent.
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, act 1, scene 2
A turned-on Lola fanned herself as she stared at Braden’s perfect backside as he droned on about the history of baklava and gathered some ingredients from the pantry.
It was as if every time he stood near, the temperature of the room spiked twenty degrees.
Balancing a bunch of containers in the crook of his arm, he carried them back to her and dropped them on the counter. His light green eyes darkened as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “They’re better than good. They’re large and meaty.”
Her pussy clenched as a visual of a naked Braden flashed in her vivid imagination. “Yeah?” Why did her voice sound so low and raspy?
“Yeah,” he said so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him. His head popped up and he straightened to full height, grinning down at her. “If you’d care to sample them, I’d be hap—”
She laughed and playfully punched his shoulder. “Perv.”
He grinned, flashing his perfectly straight white teeth. She’d bet he wore braces for years to get that smile. “What’s perverted about walnuts?”
“You know darn well you weren’t talking about walnuts.”
“How would you know? You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? I saw the bored glaze over your eyes as I educated you on the fascinating history of baklava. I had to get your attention somehow.” He grabbed a couple of plastic bowls and measuring cups from the shelf above the counter and slid the food processor down the counter.
Bored? Not even close. “Desserts have a history?”
“Of course. Like music, food tells a story.” He dumped the walnuts into the food processor and turned on the power. The blades whirred and pulsed loudly, grinding the nuts into smaller pieces. He spoke above the noise, “You only have to open your mind to the experience. For example, baklava. Greeks and Arabs both claimed to have created the first baklava, but in reality, it was the Assyrians in the eighth century B.C.”
“That’s an . . .” she shouted until he turned off the food processor, then returned to normal volume, “. . . old dessert.”
He added cinnamon and sugar to the nuts, but didn’t bother using measuring spoons. “Yes. The Greeks can take credit for inventing the thin, crisp phyllo dough. Before that, they used a thick Assyrian bread in the recipe. As merchants traveled the seas, baklava spread throughout the world and each region added their own touch, including the type of nuts they used.” He brushed melted butter to the bottom of a large pan and added layer after layer of phyllo, brushing each with butter then sprinkling the walnut mixture over it before adding more phyllo and sprinkling more walnuts. She lost count of how many layers of phyllo he used after he repeated the process a couple more times. When he’d run out of ingredients, he popped it in the oven.
Now she knew why he always smelled sweet. The baking he did at home lingered on his skin. She watched his hands as they moved effortlessly and mindlessly, mixing and sprinkling in a sensual and seductive rhythm which sparked a flame in her chest. She’d swear if she looked down, she’d see her heart pounding against her flesh.
She drew a ragged breath through her mouth and walked toward the refrigerator. “Hmm. I didn’t know there was such a variety of nuts . . . in baklava. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.” She opened the fridge, relieved to feel the cool air, and bent for a bottle of water.
“Most Americans use pistachios,” Braden said from right behind her, his voice tight and low. “Authentic Greek baklava calls solely for walnuts. Do you know why?”
“Because they’re yummier and easier to crack? Or because they’re large and meaty?” she quipped, still bent.
In this position, her ass was awfully close to his . . . nuts. The cool air turned hot and she twisted the cap of the water bottle. She took a long swig of the cold liquid, hoping it would ease the sexual burn heading south from her chest. Didn’t work. She needed a few minutes in the freezer. But first, she’d have to escape from the fridge.