Page 83 of Desserts for Stressed People

“They’re not flirting!” I protest, also sitting up.

“Oh, please. She sees him look down at her dress and her…”—he scrolls through a few pages and reads out—“her whole body shakes with desperation at the need she feels for him.” My lips stretch across my face, and his do too. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s romantic,” I correct.

“Oh, of course.” He slaps the back of his hand on the cover, like he’s made a terrible mistake. “Very romantic. Her father’s body isn’t even cold yet.”

Stifling a chuckle, I set the e-book reader on my stomach. “So then, how does real life work according to Mr. Asshole, the ice king?”

His nose twitches as he clearly fights to hold back a grin. “Well, in real life, even if you could fall in love with someone in two minutes, you couldn’t tell them. They’d run away without looking back—if they’re smart.” He pouts for half a second. “In real life, you need timing and a little luck.”

“Well, these two don’t have either,” I say as I point at the book in his hands. “But he sees her for what she really is. Behind the layers of mistrust and fear and issues, he just sees her and loves her.” When I meet his gaze, he’s staring at me so deeply that heat springs over my cheeks. “And she...she helps him overcome his limitations. She pushes him to become the person he was always meant to be before...well, life got in the way.”

He says nothing, but smiles widely as he studies me.

“Spoiler alert.”

“It sounds better from your lips than from the author’s pen anyway.”

I go back to my read, set on ignoring his continuoushmphs andtsks. That book has sold millions of copies, and I don’t think I can say the same about this damn event management manual. So what if it’s notsuperrealistic? I picked it up at the fiction section for a reason.

Once the brown leather cushion sticks to my legs, I move to the carpet and lie with my back against the base of the couch. I’m halfway through chapter seven when Shane joins my side with a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

“They had sex,” he says.

I slowly bob my head up and down. “Great scene.”

He snorts. “Really? That’s the first time he touches her, but he knows exactly how to make her orgasm, and it takes him”—he studies the page—“two paragraphs.” With a knowing stare, he arches his brow. “He reads her mind, doesn’t he?” I swallow as he keeps laughing, halting once he notices my shaken expression. “What?”

“You said ‘orgasm.’”

He briefly nods. “So? It’s a word.”

“A word you’ve never said.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve said it before.” His tongue wets his lower lip. “Just not around you.”

Yes. He’s never said the word “orgasm” in front of me. Nor the word “sex.” We’ve never talked about these sorts of things, and now that we’re shoulder to shoulder, it feels weirdly intimate. I’ve never been a prude, but Shane is my boss. And he’s… Shane.

“Maybe he’s very talented,” I say, pointing at the book.

“He must be. He made her come with his mind. Or it might be that he is an Adonis with”—he opens the book and reads out—“a bulging girth.”

“Oh my God,” I say, hiding my face behind the e-reader, and he cracks up, the notes of his raucous laughter hitting all the right spots inside me. I’m plenty aware that he’s laughing at the fact I’m reading this book, rather than at the book itself. “Fine. It’s a silly book, but it makes me happy.”

When he bumps his arm against my shoulder, I look at his face, so close to mine. As much as he makes fun of my steamy book, I get the main character. He could make me orgasm with a kiss. That’s all I wish for right now. His breath is on my lips, and I can smell sugar, honey. He’s like a gigantic dessert, and I need a bite. Just one.

His fingers graze mine, and at first, I wince, lightly backing away. It’s like the contact of our skin burns. He finds my hand again, and this time, our fingers entangle. My heart is thumping in my chest, and by now, we’ve had enough moments to know this is another one. Maybe the most intense yet. We’re holding hands, and that’s never happened before.

My breath works up as I stare at our fingers, tight in a warm hold, and when I look back at his face, the corners of his lips are curved up. “This feels a little date-like,” he whispers.

He started it, but my hand is holding onto his so tight, I can’t call myself blameless.

I let his hand go, but before my palm can actually separate from his, he tightens his hold. “I don’t want to stop.”

As I press my fingertips onto the back of his hand, he rubs his thumb on the back of mine, then focuses on his book, bringing my hand closer to his body every time he needs to turn the page, despite my complaints.

Our fingers only separate when he walks me to my bedroom and wishes me a good night, giving me the high-five he promised.

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