Page 82 of Playboy Pitcher
“Willow? What are you doing here?”
Immediately, I notice two things: there’s an intoxicating smell coming from inside, and Ben isnothappy to see me.
Holding onto the wall, I steady myself back on my feet. “I know I should’ve called before just showing up…” My words trail off as my eyes lower to his chest. “Is that an apron?”
“This isn’t a good time. Can I call you later?”
Stepping into the foyer, I draw in another deep inhale as a sweet, buttery aroma makes my mouth water. “Ben, are you…? Are youbaking?”
“No.” Offering a mumbled grunt, he advances toward me while forcing me back. “Like I said, I’ll call you—”
“You are!” Laughing, I crouch low and sneak under his arm. Ignoring the frantic shouts of my name and heavy footsteps on my heels, I follow my nose to the kitchen to find what can only be described as the mother of all desserts sitting proudly on the counter. “Holy shit,” I breathe.
If confection can be breathtaking, this one definitely is and more. Alternating layers of spongy cake, yellow cream, and blueberries sit in a fancy glass bowl on a fancy glass stand.
“It’s nothing.”
Awe-struck, I turn to face him. “Did you make that?”
He half grumbles and half snorts, a tinge of pink staining his cheeks. “No. I bought it.”
I run my finger along the flour-coated counter. “Do you, um, always destroy your kitchen when you buy desserts?” Grinning, I blow a cloud of white dust in his face.
“Shut up, Willow.”
Now I’m invested, so I crouch down and inspect each layer like I’m a food critic. “Nice blueberry pudding.”
I might as well have called it a pile of dog shit. Ben’s eyebrows draw up, crinkling his forehead, and his mouth twists in disgust. “Blueberry pudding? Were you raised in a mansion or an outhouse? That’s a lemon blueberry trifle,” he defends, tapping the glass. “And a damn good one at that. The angel food cake alone took over two hours to bake.”
I toss him a victorious smirk. “I thought you didn’t make it?”
Shooting me a death stare, Ben tears at the ties on his apron and jerks it over his head. I shouldn’t keep antagonizing him, but when he throws it across the kitchen and storms out, I can’t help myself.
“Aren’t you going to offer me some?
“No.”
“I didn’t know you baked.”
Stopping at the entrance to the kitchen, Ben tips his head back and lets out a frustrated breath. “Did you come here for a reason? You know, other than to be a giant pain in my ass?”
“I came to talk about yesterday.”
The corded muscles in his neck tense. I wait for what seems like minutes before he twists at the waist and braces a hand on the wall. But it’s notmyBen who scans my ugly yellow dress with a salacious smirk. “Didn’t get enough, baby? Have you come back for seconds?”
I’m not angry as much as disappointed. I know what he’s doing. Hell, it’s a move right out of my own playbook. Deflect and defeat. If you make someone hate you, they can’t hurt you.
What hurts is seeing it from a different perspective.
“Will you stop with the Playboy Pitcher act?” I shout because now he’s pissing me off. Moving toward him, I jab a finger at his chest. “You forget I know you now. You’re not this character you pretend to be.”
“You don’t know shit about me, Willow. If you did…” Trailing off, he shakes his head.
“If I did, what?”
“If you did, you’d get that damn finger out of my face for one thing!” he roars. “You want a list? Fine. If you did, you wouldn’t push me away. You wouldn’t keep secrets. You wouldn’t antagonize me in front of my team just to piss me off so you can prove a point to yourself.”
“And what point is that?”
