The Hotter You Burn

“It wasn’t one night, and we both know it.” He stayed beside her, careful not to touch her. “Don’t lie to me. Not ever again.”

The challenging tone had returned, demanding more than she was willing to give.

“You are not a stripper,” he said.

“I am, too! In my imagination,” she muttered. She’d been a lot of things in her imagination. A divorced mom supporting five kids...who happened to catch the eye of the richest CEO in town. A skilled surgeon given three more weeks to live...who happened to catch the eye of her handsomest patient—who happened to be a brilliant scientist willing to risk his career to save her life. She’d even been a princess from a distant world where lands were ravaged by war...and she happened to catch the eye of the enemy army’s leader, ushering in long-desired peace.

Without a TV or a computer, she’d had to entertain herself, and as an unrepentant bookworm, she’d had a lot of inspiration.

“Be that as it may—” Beck pushed a branch out of her path “—you don’t live in the city. You don’t own a car or have a job. You’ve been living on this land since you were kicked out of the farmhouse. And by living, of course, I mean existing. Have I left anything out?”

“No.” She surged forward and because of him, she wasn’t sliced by thorns. For a jerk, he sure was considerate. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He still sounded angry.

At the house, he opened the front door for her. She entered the living room, and the second she caught the scent of breakfast, she picked up speed. A feast was indeed spread across the kitchen table, plus two empty plates and two glasses of orange juice. Her stomach rumbled, her knees going weak, her mouth watering.

“Sit.” He flattened his hand on her lower back and gave her a gentle push forward.

The moment she obeyed, he began piling her plate high with heaping spoonfuls of every dish. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage patties. Sausage links. Pancakes. Waffles. Biscuits and gravy. The contents began to spill over the side. After he set the plate in front of her, he took the seat next to her.

“Eat,” he said.

She did, and oh, wow. The taste! Even better than the blueberry juice she’d filched from the pie.

“Good, right?” he said, and she heard the pride in his tone.

“You cooked this?” she asked around a mouthful of eggs. She couldn’t force herself to stop chewing long enough to pretend to be feminine and proper, a girl with manners.

“It’s my specialty.”

Breakfast. Of course. For every morning after one of his sexcapades. “Well, I commend you on your perfect consolation prize.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean, honey.”

“It’s what you give your women instead of a relationship, right?”

His fork clattered against his plate. Which still had food on it, while hers was basically licked clean.

“Are you going to eat that?” She pointed to the waffle dripping with butter and syrup.

“It’s not a consolation prize. It’s breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.” He pushed the plate in her direction, and she dug in.

“What’s your problem with long-term relationships?”

“Relationships leave scars,” he said.

“Sometimes.”

“Always.”

“Well, those scars can be healed.”

“Sometimes,” he said, mimicking her. “But why risk any kind of mental or emotional harm when I can give something far better?”

Flushing, she said, “What could possibly be better than a relationship?”

“I believe we’ve discussed this. Pleasure. Lots and lots of pleasure.”

The huskiness of his voice invited her to lean close and experience everything he had to offer...

Doing her best to ignore a cascade of shivers, she focused on her bacon. Every bite proved better than the last, and when she finished, she almost ate the plate. So good! But also threatening to come back up.

Whatever. Every bite had been worth it. She rubbed her new food baby, saying, “Thank you, Beck. Really.”

“Done?”

“Yes.”

He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, but in the end, there was no denying the man who’d just taken such good care of her. She curled her fingers around his, the calluses on his palms creating a delicious friction against her skin.

She tried to play it cool as he helped her stand to shaky legs. He led her into the hallway, to the second room on the right. Her old bedroom. How had he known?

“My room,” he said.

“Seriously?” As she’d done the last time she’d been here, she took a moment to mourn the loss of her queen-size bed with its floral comforter, her antique nightstands, and the vaulted ceiling with crumbling crown molding and the distorted images she’d painted.

Harlow flashed back to the emotional breakdown she’d suffered soon after her mother’s death, when she’d splattered the different colors of paint across the magical fairyland, leaving a chaotic mess.

“Were you the one who ruined the murals?” he asked.

She’d been staring up, she realized, and he’d easily guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Yes. The day of my mom’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry you did what you did. I liked the images and hoped to preserve them, but you’d made sure nothing could be salvaged.”

The words shocked her. “You actually liked my art?”

“You painted them?”

“Well, yeah. Why so surprised?”

He paid no heed to her question, saying, “Your talent is amazing, honey.”

“Thank you.” Glowing at his praise, Harlow took in the rest of the bedroom. “I never would have guessed you were a fan. I mean, you decided to go with beige walls.”

“You don’t like beige?”