Page 56 of Go Back to December

It is. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

The truth of it shames me. I’m tired of the animosity that lingers between Baz and me like a bitter aftertaste. “Are you telling me that the King of Hustle couldn’t have persuaded me?”

“You’re immune to my charms.”

“You charmed me into our deal.”

“Did I?” He smiles ruefully. “I got the impression you pitied me.”

“Impossible.” Slightly possible. “Your incentives were compelling.”

“I would have conceded a lot more to get you to agree.”

He’s hustling me. There’s no deeper meaning in what he’s saying. If there were, he’d never have suggested this cause play.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” He frowns down at his glass. “We agreed no physical contact in front of my family.”

“That’s not exactly what we agreed to.” My skin flushes. “But I need some boundaries. Otherwise, I’m worried I’ll get confused about what this really is.” A deal, I remind myself. “It’s for your protection as much as mine. I can be overwhelming with my affection. And I mean, look at you.” I flap a hand over the long lines of his body. “Given free rein, I’d enjoy myself way too much.”

“So would I.”

The timer chimes on the stove, and I flee to avoid saying something acerbic, or worse.

Ask him if he means any of it.

Baz seats himself at the small round table while I shuttle over dishes his mom left us: lamb meatballs simmering in fragrant red sauce; squash casserole; the croquettes, which I suspect I’m going to have to fight Baz for because there aren’t enough for the two of us, and I’ve worked up a voracious appetite putting up with his shit today.

We carefully avoid the other land mines from this afternoon by talking about his shopping trip. It yielded the charcoal-gray joggers he’s wearing, along with a pine-colored long-sleeve T-shirt that’s so close to the color of his green eye, I’m working overtime not to stare at it.

When I force myself to look away, I catch sight of the box of café files. It sits on the floor, empty. The contents are neatly divided into stacks surrounding it.

“You went through the documents?” I ask.

“Just sorted them so they’re more organized.” Baz helps himself to the last of the meatballs. His tongue darts out of the corner of his full mouth to lick sauce off his thumb. The slight movement is so casually sensual, heat races up my neck.

I blink back at the boxes. “You asked Dooley to help. Why do you trust him with the plan for the café if you won’t let him spend the night here?”

He huffs around a mouthful of food.

“Tell me. It will be a warm-up for your big explanation.”

“No.”

As punishment for his surliness, I steal the last meatball off his plate.

Baz’s gaze lingers on my mouth long after I’ve swallowed the last morsel. “Thief.” His voice is hoarse and low. Slowly, he extends his arm across the table and brushes my cheek with his long fingers.

A swift trajectory of heat blazes in their wake.

With his thumb, he grazes the skin beneath my bottom lip, faintly tracing it. His stare is as unnerving as his touch.

Too quickly, he leans back and brandishes a drop of red sauce on his finger.

“Crime scene evidence.”

He destroys it with a flick of his tongue, and a smirk.