There’s a knock on Bernadette’s door.
It pulls me out of deep concentration on the trailer project and sends a small thrill of anticipation up my spine.
It’s gotta be Kane. It’s not like I get visitors.
I haul myself off the couch—an increasingly challenging undertaking. Even though I know it has to be him, I peep out. One of the awesome mods on Bernadette, courtesy of her previous owner, is a peephole, which is super useful when you’re a single woman on the road alone.
And even though I know it has to be him, I still feel a surge of pleased surprise when I see his face.
“Delivery,” he says, holding out a big, round Tupperware… cake holder? “Boston cream pie.”
Holy shit, he found it.
I yank open the door and have to stop myself from snatching the cake out of his hands. Or throwing my arms around him and hugging the crap out of him. “Where did you find it?”
He stops, appearing to think better of whatever he was about to say, but it’s too late. I know where that sentence was going.
“You made it?”
“Amanda helped,” he says, like that’s going to take anything away from a six-foot-something built-like-a-God man who bakes Boston cream pies.
“Aaaaahhhh!” I cry, overcome. “You are a saint and a genius.”
He tries to bite back a smile. “I think you’re overstating things a little.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I have been fantasizing about yellow custard, soft yellow cake, and chocolate ganache nonstop since before I knew Kane had planted this baby in me. “Come in. You have to have some, too.”
“It’s all for you,” he says. “I wouldn’t take any of your special treat. Your presentation was fantastic. You deserve all the cake.”
This guy. I swear. He was too much in Vegas, when all I knew about him was that he asked real questions and knew how to use his body for both good and evil. Now…
“Well, come in anyway.”
He hesitates again, then follows me in, setting the cake on the counter. I wash my hands and take two small plates down from the cabinets. I grab two forks from the utensil drawer and two mugs from the overhead hooks. “I don’t have coffee—” I gesture at my belly, “—but I have tea, milk, or water.”
“Water would be great,” he says. “And no cake. I’m serious. It’s yours.”
I wrestle the cake carrier open and cut into my prize. My mouth waters as I do. It’s so—
Not gonna say moist, but holy shit, it soooo is.
We sit at Bernadette’s little pink dinette table. I’d forgotten how small this table is with two people at it. Or maybe it’s how big Kane is; his knees touch mine, and his arms cover so much territory, even with his hands folded. I force myself to look away because staring at close range is both rude and dangerous.
His eyes are very, very blue.
I dig in. “Oh, wow,” I say. “Wow.”
It’s soft. Moist (again, sorry!). Tender, springy. The custard is cool and smooth on my tongue, the ganache dark and flavorful.
“Mmm. Just. Thank you.”
Kane grins at me, like he’s pleased, though there’s something else in his expression I can’t quite read. “I did good?”
“You did amazing. So good I could kiss you.”
One eyebrow goes up, but he only says, “How does it rate among the Boston cream pies of the world?”
“It’s up there. Although pregnancy might be biasing me.” I lick a bite that’s mostly custard from my fork, and catch a glimpse of Kane’s face. His eyes are… interested. I lick again, for good measure, and notice the muscle in his jaw tense.
A ripple of tension slides down the lower slope of my belly and lodges itself in my internal muscles. In their constantly primed state, they… quiver dangerously.
The next time I look at him, Kane’s eyes are on my chest. I’m wearing a flowy green maternity dress with a low scoop neck, and, why, yes, it does show off my newly ridiculously huge boobs to excellent advan—
He reaches out. “Some cake—”
His finger almost touches the upper curve of my breast, and, oh, whoops, yes, that is cake on my boob. I use my own finger to scoop it up, then lick it clean.
I hear the moment the breath leaves Kane’s lungs.
I see the moment his gaze travels from my chest to my mouth, when it fixes on my finger, sliding between my lips. The moment it sticks, and stays, right there on my mouth, even as my hand drops away.
His voice is hoarse.
“Do it. Just—do it,” I order him.
Then he’s leaning over the table, setting his mouth over mine, hot and unhesitating and so, so good.