Page 58 of The Love Scam
“Easter’s about shiny fake grass and crappy-ass chocolate and scary-ass Peeps and coloring eggs that no one eats and getting a bellyache from eating too much crappy-ass chocolate. That’s what it’s about. Not”—he gestured to the messy kitchen, his floured body, the piles of orange peel, the tubes of almond paste, the utter nightmare surrounding him—“this!”
“That was beautiful.” She smirked. “You should write greeting card verses in your spare time.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but thank you.”
“Y’know…” She gestured at the piles of garbage destined to go into the next batch of dough. “It’s pretty good.”
He could feel his temper unraveling. “It’s not! Not even a little.”
“You’ve been to Italy before, have you even tried a piece?”
“Yes! Once, when I was trying to bang a baker. She made it for me and I had to eat the whole thing and it sucked!”
“You know you’re screaming, right?”
“I’m aware!” Worse yet: screaming his sexual résumé. The baker had been way too fixated on using food during sex. Chocolate he didn’t mind. Dough, though?
That grin again. Any other woman would be pissed, or backing off, or yelling back. Claire Delaney just looked like a stranded millionaire shouting at her in a deconsecrated church kitchen was a present she got to open early.
“Look on the bright side,” she suggested, “now I know what to get you for your birthday. And thanks to Blake, I know exactly when it is.”
“I! Hate! Everything!” Each word was punctuated by his fist slamming on the countertop, raising a cloud of flour. Then he ruined his rage roars by sneezing.
“You seem tense. Maybe you should suck on a tube of almond paste until you calm down.”
“Oh my God, you are a horrible bitch,” he groaned.
“Yes.” The smirk was gone to wherever her smirks went when she wasn’t smirking.Hmm. Might not have gotten enough sleep last night.“It’s good you know that, Rake. It’s a good thing to always keep in mind.”
He shook his head and stepped away from the counter, which had the doubly pleasing effect of distancing him from piles of orange peel and getting him closer to Delaney.
She had her dark waves pulled back into a ponytail, which rippled whenever she turned her head, and ignoring the urge to touch it and press it to his lips was taking not a little self-control. She was wearing faded jeans and a blackBOSTON EST.1680sweatshirt
(Somewhere else she lived? Or just passing through? Does she belong anywhere? Did she ever?)
and on anyone else it would look like she was getting ready to paint, or move
(odd clothes for a meeting at church)
but on her it was exactly right, perfect for supervising an entitled millionaire when not scooping pickpocketing children off the streets and keeping half an eye on a brilliant child who might be his.
“I can’t touch you,” he said, and why was he hoarse? The hour? The screaming? “I’ll get flour on you.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to assume for the greater good” was the solemn response, which made no sense and was ruined by a giggle.
He touched her anyway; he couldn’t help it. He cupped the nape of her neck in his hand and tasted her mouth, her ripe, sweet mouth. She tasted like hot chocolate (Delaney was not a fan of coffee) and smelled like clean cotton, and her hands came up to press against his chest. He started to pull back, thinking she wanted him off of her, but she tightened her grip and he couldn’t move, and never was being held in place so glorious. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and she opened for him; her tongue touched his and she nipped at his lip.
He pulled back and groaned, then ran a thumb over her full lower lip. “That’s so good, Delaney, my God, yourmouth.” And then he had to have it again, had to taste it, taste her, and it took several seconds to find the discipline to stop.
He sucked in a deep breath and shut his eyes, his lips still on hers, but now barely touching. “If you’re going to retaliate, could you just knee me in the ’nads or something?”
“Not the face,” she said into his mouth. “Got it.” And then kissed himback.
Thirty-one
This is stupid. You are stupid, Claire Delaney. You are making something already complicated and dangerous even more complicated and dangerous, and for what? To kiss a pretty boy? To find out he tastes like oranges and sugar?
It’ll be so much worse later. You’re making it so much worse right now.
