Page 32 of Love to Hate You

Before she knew what was happening, she was being yanked forward and into his arms. She struggled half-heartedly to escape but he snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her into a big bear hug, every inch of her connecting with every inch of him as he rubbed himself back and forth, transferring the flour from his clothes to hers.

They were both laughing so hard that neither of them noticed just how many body parts were touching until she felt a little zing from her belly to her toes. Wes must have noticed as well, because his embrace turned from friendly to more intimate, his hands splaying over her hips. And when their eyes locked her next laugh died on her lips—which he was staring at.

They both stilled and she took stock of just how intimate their embrace had become. Her palms were on his pecs, leaving behind two flour marks in the shape of handprints, and his hands were on her ass—likely doing the same.

And for the second time that day, tension coiled between them like a loaded spring. Neither spoke, but when she looked into his annoyingly perfect eyes a whole conversation passed between them.

Want.

Lust.

Desire.

Danger.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Helping you cook dinner.”

“No, you were about to mansplain how to do something I mastered before I could reach the counter.”

“So you used to make pasta naked,” he said, which told her he’d heard her and her auntie’s entire convo. “If it’s tradition, we can both strip down.”

Her nipples tightened. “I already lost once today, I’d hate to be disappointed again.”

Before she knew what was happening, he was pressing her against the counter. She could feel his heat surrounding her, his biceps brushing her arms as he leaned in to whisper, “I assure you, I’m an aim-to-please kind of man. One test drive and I’ll ruin you for other men.”

She swallowed hard. “In your dreams.”

He moved even closer and her body trembled. His lips grazed the curve of her ear and he said, “Are you denying I’ve never starred in any ofyourdreams?”

She turned in his arms and looked him straight in the eyes, which meant craning her neck back to look all the way up his six-foot-three frame. “Never.”

He cracked a knowing smile. “Then what’s the harm in a little kiss to test my theory that you and I would crack the sheetrock.”

Oh. My. God. Did her lady parts just moan?

“We can’t even make pasta without arguing.”

“I think, for us, that’s foreplay, love,” he said, sounding as surprised as her over his epiphany.

Horror shot through her. It couldn’t be. But what if he was right? What if all of this was one big game of cat and mouse? Which lead to the most important question. Did she want to be caught?

No. absolutely not, she told herself. She’d rather burn her entire library of Judy Garwood novels than sleep with the man who was trying to put her out of business. Her attraction to him was merely from sex deprivation. She could admit he was handsome in that polished way Wall Street men were—he had masculine hands, and a magnetism about him that could con a bunch of unsuspecting small business owners into welcoming his big business with open arms.

“It’s loathing.”

“Then how about we make a wager of our own. A pasta-off. If I win, I get that kiss.”

“A kiss?” she croaked, the color of her cheeks deepening. “Why would you want to kiss me?”

“To prove there’s something here that can’t be ignored.”

She didn’t need a test to prove that. Her body was practically putty and they were both fully clothed. “There’s nothing between us,” she lied.

“Then there won’t be any harm in a little kiss,” he challenged—and oh, that superior tone of his pushed her buttons.

“Okay, fine. But no tongue.”

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