Page 61 of The Last Guy On Earth
I bark out a laugh.
“No!” he holds up a hand for patience. “I mean that sincerely. A woman would have to reallyknowyou for a while to appreciate all that quiet strength and loyalty. That stuff is harder to see, but it matters more than a fun night in a bar. Whoever she was, she didn’t stick around long enough to watch how hard you work. Or see you step up for your nephew and forgive your dad.”
I’m still holding my spoon, but I forget to put it in my mouth.
“But maybe that’s okay,” he continues, “because you wouldn’t have been happy with style over substance anyway.”
Our gazes hold, and my heart does some kind of tumbling trick that I’ve never felt before.
Jesus. Even when I was a twenty-two year old fuckup, Clay saw me more clearly than anyone else in my life. That’s a rare thing in this world. And I didn’t even realize what I had.
The oven timer dings.
Clay reacts immediately, getting up to cross the kitchen. He takes our last dozen cupcakes out of the oven and sets them on the counter into the silence between us.
“Thank you for doing this tonight,” I say quietly.
His cool eyes flip up to mine. “You’re welcome. I’m sure you’re exhausted, but these have to cool a few minutes before we can get them out of the pan.”
I swallow the last bite of my chili. “Let’s eat a cupcake. For quality control.”
“Quality control.” He smirks. “But then there won’t be three dozen. And I promised.”
“Toby won’t count them. And besides, we deserve this.” I lean over the kitchen island toward the steaming pan. I grab one of the cupcakes by my fingertips, but it’s hot. “Ouch. Dammit.”
He snorts. “You could have taken one from an earlier batch.”
“I don’t like to follow rules. Now get over here, we’re splitting this.”
Clay takes a knife out of the drawer and circles to hand it to me. I make a clean cut across the cupcake’s center, and steam rises from the molten chocolatey crumb, which is shot through with a swirl of cream cheese and chocolate chips. The scent of warm chocolate is intoxicating.
I set the knife down and reach for one of the halves. But Clay—fast as lightning—grabs my hand. “It’s too hot. You’re going to burn your mouth.”
“So?” I say, even though all my attention is now focused on how he’s holding my hand. I always liked his hands. And the way he used them to try to pin me down on the mattress…
“You were warned,” he says, releasing me. “If you want a singed tongue, go right ahead.”
My body temperature jumps as our gazes lock, which is probably why I say, “You seem pretty concerned about my tongue.”
His blue eyes instantly heat, and I’m not the only one on the struggle bus, here.
He drops his gaze, breaks off a little piece ofmyhalf, and shoves it in his mouth.
“Dude.” My voice is gravel. “Help yourself.”
He gives me a hot smile. “Quality control is so important. You’d better taste it.”
Then I do, only not the way he means. I grab the front of his shirt and brush his mouth with mine. Immediately, I’m swamped with memories. The scrape of his stubble against my lips and the scent of his woodsy shampoo.
He goes absolutely still, but it doesn’t even slow me down. I tilt my head and kiss him softly. Somehow, it’s a full-body experience. My skin prickles with awareness, and my pulse kicks in my throat.
Clay Powers is the only man I’ve ever kissed. Until this moment I never asked myself why, but I think I’ve always known the answer. I find plenty of men attractive, but none of them arehim. What would even be the point?
Whatever my reasons, I still crave this. And now Clay craves it, too. His mouth softens against mine, and his lips part. He tastes like chocolate and my misspent youth.
Clay groans, snaking one hand around my waist. His other hand slides up my arm, clamping my biceps before skimming up into my hair.
I step in closer, still kissing him as my body flashes with heat. Our chests bump, and my heart beats a steady rhythm ofmore, more, more.
