Page 32 of Sizzling Desire

“Fine,” he says after a moment, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “I’ll play nice. The fittings are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Kate wanted me to remind you, but you’re clearly on top of things.”

The dig is subtle, but it’s there, and I narrow my eyes even though he can’t see me. “You know, Kane, for someone who’s supposed to be the best man, you’re awfully invested in making my life harder.”

“It’s a talent,” he says smoothly. “But if it makes you feel better, I’m more than happy to handle the fittings myself. You can just sit back and relax.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Right. Because trusting you to organize anything is a great idea.”

“Hey, I can be very organized,” he protests. “I even alphabetized my spice rack last week.”

“Sure you did,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “Let me guess—your idea of spices is salt and pepper.”

“That’s hurtful,” he says, his tone mock wounded. “I also have garlic powder and chili flakes. Try to keep up.”

The ridiculousness of the conversation makes me laugh, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. I bite my lip, trying to stifle it, but it’s too late. Kane hears it, and his chuckle follows, warm and smooth.

“See? You don’t hate me as much as you pretend to,” he says softly.

“Don’t get cocky,” I warn, though my voice lacks any real heat. “One laugh doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, his tone dipping just enough to make my pulse skip. “But I’ll take it.”

Silence stretches between us, not awkward but charged, like the calm before a storm. I can feel the pull, the unspoken tension that always seems to hang in the air when he’s around—even over the phone.

“Well,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “Thanks for the update. I’ll handle it.”

“Anytime,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—something softer—that makes my chest tighten. “Good night, Gracie.”

I hang up before I can respond, staring at the phone in my hand like it might give me answers. My heart is racing, and I hate how much his voice lingers in my head, how easy it was to fall into banter with him.

He’s infuriating. Arrogant. Impossible.

But he makes me laugh, and that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

My phone vibrates on the counter, and I glance at it while I pour the last of my ginger ale. This morning sickness at any time of the day sucks. The name on the screen makes my stomach twist in that infuriating way it always does when Kane decides to invade my peace and I would vomit, but I’ve got nothing left.

Kane: Hooplas. 8 p.m. We need to nail down the bachelor/bachelorette party plans. Be there.

No “please.” No “are you free?” Just Kane and his irritating, presumptive charm, like he knows I’ll show up because it’s him asking. And damn it, Iwillshow up, but only because Kate would kill me if I didn’t.

Me: I don’t take orders, Kane. But fine. See you then.

I take a long sip of my ginger ale, hoping it will settle the way my pulse skitters at the thought of seeing him again. It’s been days since our conversation at the marina, but his words—hishonesty—still linger, and I hate that I can’t stop thinking about them.

Hooplas is buzzing with its usual crowd when I walk in, the low hum of laughter and music blending with the clatter of glasses. Kane is already there, leaning against the bar with the kind of casual confidence that makes it impossible not to notice him.

He spots me instantly, his grin spreading like he’s beenwaiting for this moment all night. He looks too good in his fitted shirt and dark jeans, his broad shoulders and easy stance drawing more than a few glances from the other women in the bar. Not that he notices. No, his eyes are locked on me, and it’s enough to make my steps falter.

“Right on time,” he says as I approach, his voice warm but teasing. “I was starting to think you’d chicken out.”

I roll my eyes, sliding onto the barstool next to him. “You’re not that lucky.”

“Lucky, huh?” His grin deepens, and damn it, why does he have to look so smug?

“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter, pulling out my notebook. “Kate wants this party to be perfect, and I’d rather not listen to her lecture me about slacking.”

He raises an eyebrow, signaling the bartender for another drink. “You? Slacking? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Don’t start,” I warn, but my lips twitch despite myself.

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