“Okay, team, what’s the plan?”
The plan. Shit. It sure hadn’t been for Mr. GQ model in designer jeans and a perfectly pressed tee-shirt to join their ranks.
“Cookies and cupcakes,” Celeste said. “Do you have baking experience?”
“College.”
“Excellent,” Celeste beamed.
He kinda cringed. “I don’t think that variety of brownie fit the theme.”
Nessa laughed. Loud. So loud it startled the rest of them. “I can show you.”
“No,” Celeste said, ushering Darroch the long way round to the other end of the counter. “Yvette can show you, she’s married.”
Nessa came closer, until they were arm to arm. “Wouldn’t stop me,” she muttered. “Check out that ass.”
Oh, God help her, but it was impossible to ignore. “We should stay away from him. Both of us.”
“They said the winner got lucky. Shouldn’t that count for us too?”
Lucky would be getting through the rest of the day without embarrassing herself any further.
From nowhere, Celeste materialized to crowd her. “You…” Grabbing her arm, she was forced to turn her back to the Breckenridge. “Stay at this end. Frosting is your world. I don’t care if you have to paint faces on the cookies to keep busy, do not look at that man or waste anymore of our stock.”
“No problem,” she said, drawing out the sentiment. “Go, team.”
Yeah, her gusto was gone. She’d keep her head down and frost her heart out. The cause mattered; it deserved their best. Just so happened that day her best was less than stellar.
THREE
THE SUN HAD SUNK and the crowds thinned. Clean up was the only thing left to do. Well, cleaning and counting, but only one was on her agenda.
Outside stalls were being broken down and packed up. The day had been long, but whatever the total, it had been worth it, someone, some people, would benefit.
“Sorry we didn’t get to work closer.”
Hmm, with her hands deep in the suds, running away from that rough brogue wasn’t an option. Head down. Maybe if she said nothing at all, he’d go away. Shoo, shoo, big Breckenridge. Read the room.
“You’re not going to talk to me?” No, but if she held her breath much longer, she’d pass out right there. Wouldn’t that be a great story to share at the country club? “You can talk about sex again.”
No, that wasn’t funny. She wouldn’t laugh or relax or… Mmmm, his cologne smacked like a one-two punch and her chin rose, tractoring her gaze to his.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Stupid voice was acting on its own again.
“I’m great at talking about sex,” he said. “Should we start with foreplay or just flirt a little? This happens at your pace, baby. How do you like it?”
He’d probably had it every which way. Was variety the spice of life or just the best way to tour pussy?
“You don’t know what’s good for you, Breckenridge,” she said, laying a spoon on the drying rack. The last thing she expected was for him to pick it up with a towel to dry it off. Howdid a billionaire know how to do that? “Your mom make you do chores at home?”
“A man should know what to do around the house.”
“Most of us don’t grow up with a staff,” she said, loosening as she washed and he dried.
This was normal. Two people. Could be any two people just shooting the breeze. Focus on the water and those dirty, dirty—wet, dirty, slick, slippery soap and—nope, switch route. No sex thinking, embrace logic. If she didn’t think it, surely her mouth couldn’t speak it.