"Don't forget to call the company about that freezer," Opal advises. "It was making a noise this morning again when I came in. Killian was going to take a look but "

"No," I cut her off. "Killian doesn't need to do anything else here. He's done quite enough."

"Uh-huh. See you tomorrow, honey," Opal calls.

I don't hear a sound from the front of the store. It's two minutes past two and the store is closed, since our business is morning-heavy and closing by two usually gives me just enough time to wrap up administrative stuff and run to get Chloe from school. Maybe Killian has taken the hint and gone home with his tail between his legs. Somehow I don't think so. He doesn't seem like the type to be embarrassed by anything he does.

I set the paper down on the counter and swing open the freezer door, propping it open with a box. It's making a bit of a buzzing sound, but then again, it's an old freezer. It came with the bakery. I'm sure a repairman is going to cost me a pretty penny, I think, as I put the cake on a shelf inside the freezer.

When I turn around, Killian is standing just inside the kitchen, his hand on the counter.

13.

Killian The look that crosses Lily's face when she sees me... well, she is pissed.

Her nostrils are flaring again, worse than before. I'm not sure I've ever been this close to a woman flaring her nostrils at me like a damn horse.

Shit. Now all I can think about is riding her. Or her riding me. I'm not particular. An image of Lily bent over while I smack her perfect bare ass with a riding crop flashes in my head. All of the blood in my body immediately goes to my cock. Hell, I don't even know where that came from. It's not like I'm into whips and chains and shit.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to say something?" Lily asks, her voice hard.

She's angry. It's hot as hell.

"Look," I start. "Your customers are annoying as fuck."

"That's what you're going with?" she asks. "Of all the things you could say, that's your defense?"

"It was disorganized as all get-out in the morning, and the same people that were in there yesterday were asking the same dumb questions about ingredients and wanting double low-fat no-whip caramel whatever-the-fuck. So I had to set some ground rules."

"This is my business!" she yells, obviously frustrated. "I don't know who the hell you think you are or why on earth I've been stupid enough to even let you in here."

"Hold up now. I was helping you out."

Her eyes get wide, and she marches up to me like she's on a mission. I glance sideways out of the corner of my eye to make sure there are no knives on the stainless steel countertop where she was working. She looks like she might be considering using one.

"That's 'helping me'?" she asks. "Pissing off customers, driving people out of here, probably landing me in the newspaper for my poor customer service? That's your idea of helping?"

"Wait a second here, little girl," I say, bristling at her negativity. "So I took a few creative liberties. But I've been working for free, so that's got to count for something."

Well, shit. The way she's looking at me now, I know that little girl was definitely the wrong thing to say. Hell, this chick has me all messed up.

"I am not a little girl," she says, her blue eyes flashing. She punctuates each word with a sharp inhale of breath, her breasts rising and falling underneath the top of her apron. I can't even hear what she's saying because all I can think about is covering her mouth with mine.

When she points her finger against my chest, I close my fingers around her wrist. My cock strains against the zipper of my jeans the second my fingers touch her skin. She's angry and hates me, and I want her more than anything. And I think she wants me just as badly as I want her. "No, you're not," I growl. "You're far from it."

She pauses for a second, motionless, her eyes on mine. Then she wrenches her arm away. "You don't get to come in here with all your ... your ... stupid macho bullshit and just ... stir shit up like you think you know better than me how to run my own damn business. Or my life."

"I didn't tell you how to run your life," I argue. Fuck, I can't argue when I have a boner. I can't think with her standing in front of me with those pouty lips that beg to be kissed and her cheeks flushed pink, the kind of pink that makes it look like she just had an orgasm. It only makes me want to give her one.

"You take over when I'm talking to my kid about her homework, tell her you bet she's not good at math in some kind of attempt at reverse psychology, and "

"You're mad about that?" I ask, totally confused now. Confused and horny: that's a stellar combination. "It worked, didn't it?"

"That's not the point," she says, hands on her hips again.

"What's the point then, woman?" I ask, exasperated. She makes me fucking crazy.

"The point is " She exhales heavily and then inhales sharply. "That you're fired. You ... can't come around here with your shirt off and all of your stupid muscles and tattoos and that damn beard "

I don't let her finish. Reaching behind her head, I grab a handful of hair and pull her against me, bringing my mouth down on hers. She melts against me, the same way she did when I kissed her before, except this time she doesn't pull away. She moans into my mouth, reaching for my shirt and pulling me hard against her as she kisses me back.

This isn't just a kiss. It's whatever pent-up bullshit and tension there is that's been between us since the moment I laid eyes on this woman. It's still an argument, even though neither of us are speaking. Instead, our tongues war with each other, battling for which one is right.

When I finally pull away from her, her face is flushed and her lips are swollen from my kiss. Her eyes are lidded and heavy and lust is written all over her face. "You were saying something about me being fired."

She makes a sound as I grip her hair tightly in my hand, a low moan under her breath. "You're still fired," she breathes.

"Good," I say, my voice hoarse. "I'd hate to think you were a pushover."

"I'm not a pushover," she whispers as I reach around the back of her waist and yank the tie of her apron, undoing it with a single gesture. I let go of her hair long enough to toss the apron aside, taking a long look at her standing in front of me in her white t-shirt and fitted jeans.

I think I might have a t-shirt and jeans fetish now.

I bring my mouth down on hers again, even as doubts flash in my thoughts. I should leave her alone. What the hell do I think I'm doing, kissing a woman like this? This isn't the way I should be touching her. Lily is classy, the kind of girl who gets flowers and foreplay, not fucked in a kitchen in the back of a store.

Then she moans again.

"I've been thinking about this the whole time I've been here," I say, pulling her head back so she looks at me. "Tell me you've been thinking about my lips on yours."

Her lips move slightly, her mouth starting to form words, but she doesn't speak.

"Tell me," I growl.

Then the fucking phone rings.

The sound reverberates through the room, sucking out all of the air with it. And just like that, Lily's expression changes. Something flits across her face regret, maybe and she shakes her head. "I ... can't," she whispers.

"Forget the phone," I growl. She's wound tighter than any girl I've ever met. I want to rip her clothes off. I want to undo her.

"No," she says, shaking her head. She puts her palm against my chest, half-heartedly pushing me back like she's not quite sure what she wants to do. "No. I ... can't. You should leave now."

"That's not what you want," I say, my voice softer now. "You don't want me to leave."

Her eyes flash. "Don't tell me what I want. You should go."

I let out a heavy exhale and step back from her, taking in the way she stands there with her fingers resting on her lips, pieces of her hair falling messily around her face. "Suit yourself. You know where to find me if you change your mind."

Her jaw set, she shakes her head. "That's not going to happen."

"I was talking about the job. I'll wait for your apology for firing me."

"You're going to be waiting a long time," she says as I walk toward the door.

"Whatever you say, woman," I tell her, purposely using the word I know she hates. "I'm up the mountain, over off Burnt Pine Road. Opal has my address. For when you change your mind."

"Not going to happen," she calls after me.

14.

Lily My heart is still racing in the car on the way to the elementary school. I ran out of the bakery and away from Killian Saint like a bat out of hell.

My cheeks still warm at the thought of Killian's fingers brushing against my skin. My heart thumps wildly in my chest at the thought of what might have happened between us in the kitchen if the phone hadn't rung and jerked me out of whatever spell he had me under.

What the hell was I thinking, kissing him like that?

Killian Saint is a controlling, demanding brute who just set completely ridiculous, obnoxious, and insulting rules for my customers. He's the meathead who showed up at the bakery and shoved a customer's face against the wall outside in some kind of weird attempt at rescuing me.

That guy is not the kind of guy I need to be kissing.

Or thinking about kissing.

Or thinking about screwing.

I can feel his lips pressed against mine, even now. My lips throb, the sensation of his touch still on my skin.

I think I might have lost my mind back there. I've been celibate for longer than I can remember, and this is how I choose to get back in the game? By making out in the back of my store with a guy whose idea of conversation is "You. Me. Now"?

No way. Forget it. I'm not back in the game. What happened with Killian was a mistake, a lapse in judgment. It was just a kiss, nothing more. I need to put it out of my head and focus on what's important in my life: raising Chloe and running the bakery. That's all I need to be happy.

And that's exactly what I do all weekend. I spend the weekend doing what I always do: hanging out with Chloe at the park and working on our garden in the backyard and doing Friday night pizza and a movie. On Saturday, Chloe comes to the bakery with me for the morning while I work the counter at the store and I'm back home by noon. On Saturday night after Chloe is asleep, I catch up on paperwork, then watch television while drinking a glass of wine and sketching cake designs.

My regular old routine has never felt so unfulfilling before.

I sit curled up in my bed, only partly paying attention to what's on television and only partly distracted by the sketch in my lap. My mind keeps wandering to what Killian Saint is doing. The way that college girl in the store was going gaga over him the other day, I'm sure Killian has no trouble finding something - or someone to do on a Saturday night. I roll my eyes at the thought, even though I'm sitting here by myself. I'm not the least little bit put off by the thought of Killian with anyone else.

Not at all.

I blow through the front door of the bakery Monday morning, running late after dropping Chloe off at school, as usual. There's a line in the store that starts at the door, and I have to practically push my way past people to get to the counter where Opal hustles to serve customers.

I slip on an apron and jump straight into making coffee drinks. Opal calls out orders, and we slip right into our well-oiled routine, even if it's busy.

It's really busy, actually. Abnormally busy.

"Where's the hot guy who was here on Friday?" asks a college-aged girl with red hair tucked up into a baseball cap, leaning over to talk to me when I slide her latte across the counter.

I have to actively remind myself not to roll my eyes.

"I'm not sure who you're talking about," I say tersely, my jaw clenched. That's what having Killian here was doing turning my bakery into a place for college girls to come and ogle him.

"You know, the guy with the beard. Is he working today?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh. Well," she says, scribbling on a piece of paper. "Would you give him my number?"

I take the paper in stunned silence as she whirls around and flounces out the door. "Would you believe that?" I ask Opal.

Opal smiles. "Honey, people have been asking about him all morning."

"They have not," I say in disbelief as I make a triple espresso.

"On account of the newspaper article."

Newspaper article.

"What newspaper article?" I ask, my heart sinking. Oh, God. I can only imagine.

"You didn't see the " Opal asks.

A customer reaches for one of the West Bend Gazette newspapers lying on a table near the counter, as if it's totally normal that she's listening to our conversation. "This article."

My eyes scan the headline and then the article itself, my head spinning as I attempt to take it in.

"It's good press," Opal notes. "It's not an expose or anything."

"It really is," the nosy customer interjects. "It's the most interesting thing to happen at a store in West Bend in at least the past few months. Probably since Martha Talbot started carrying all of those erotic books at the bookstore. You'd get even more business if you had that man shirtless behind the counter, you know. Wouldn't hurt to start carrying some of those dirty books here, either."

I look up from the newspaper at the customer, who's looking at me as if giving me advice on how to exploit my employee's appearance is completely appropriate.

"What?" she asks, her voice innocent. "I'm sixty years old. I need something nice to look at, too."

"Why stop there?" I ask. "Why don't I hire all male staff and parade them around shirtless while you stuff dollar bills down their pants in between sips of coffee?"

"Oh, I'd come here every day if you did that," the woman behind her pipes up.

"That was sarcasm."