Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Instead, a tall, imposing man with a shaved head and a nervous smile stood there. He wore a black leather jacket, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
“Hey there,” Mason said.
Chapter 30
Hannah stared up at him, her mouth falling open. She looked way better than a woman had a right to, her hair glossy, her unusual silvery-blue eyes bright in her pretty face. There was a dab of flour on her chin, her chef’s apron dotted with what looked like chocolate.
After several long seconds, Mason ventured, “Uh… Can I come in?”
Still she hesitated, as if pondering whether to slam the door in his face. During those few seconds, Mason fought an internal battle, at once chiding himself for coming in the first place—he should have texted or emailed or even called to test the waters—and holding back his nearly uncontrollable desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
But then she took a step back, gesturing him inside.
Before she could change her mind, he stepped across the threshold. The scent of melted chocolate and caramelized sugar filled the air.
“Something smells really good,” he said, his carefully planned speech of apology gone completely out of his head.
“What’re you doing here?” she blurted. Then color washed over her face. He’d almost forgotten how easily she blushed. “That came out wrong,” she quickly added.
“No,” Mason said. “It’s a reasonable question. The short answer is I wanted to see you.” The longer answer was far more complicated, so he left it at that, for now. “But you look like you were in the middle of something. If it’s not a good time…”
“No. It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve been baking.” She glanced down at herself, giving a nervous little laugh. “Obviously.”
Unable to resist, he reached out and wiped at her floury chin with two fingers. She took a step back, her hand flying to her chin as if he’d burned her.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “You had flour on your chin.”
Fuck. What had made him think he could show up out of the blue after the way things had ended? She clearly didn’t want him there. He should just go.
“Look, I—” The unmistakable sound of a tea kettle’s whistle interrupted his words.
“Oh,” Hannah exclaimed. “My kettle. I should get that.”
When she made no move to do so, Mason said, “Hannah? You okay?”
“I’m sorry. I… Yes. Yes. I should definitely get that.” She turned and walked abruptly away.
Bemused, Mason followed her through a comfortable living room. The space was furnished with plump sofas and deep wing-backed reading chairs, woven throw rugs set here and there on the hardwood floor.
They entered a large, old-fashioned kitchen with brightly painted yellow walls, hanging pots and pans and a fifties-style white Formica table with red chairs. A blue enameled KitchenAid mixer stood on the countertop in pride of place amidst a barrage of mixing bowls and measuring cups. Flour seemed to dust everything in the place.
Hannah moved quickly to the gas range and turned off the burner beneath the now urgently whistling tea kettle.
Mason’s eye was drawn to a tray of beautiful éclairs that sat on the table beside a large metal bowl with melted chocolate dripping down the sides. “Those look amazing,” he said sincerely.
She turned from the stove with one of those dimpled smiles that nearly took his breath away.
“They came out pretty good,” she acknowledged, no longer quite as flustered as she’d been. “Though I haven’t tried one yet. You’re just in time to test the final product. But be gentle, chef—I haven’t made these in years.”
Mason smiled back, relieved to have something other than his trepidation and uncertainty to focus on. “No worries. I left my chef’s hat in my kitchen. Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She gestured toward the table. “Have a seat. I’ll just make the tea and join you. Irish breakfast okay?”
“Sure,” Mason agreed, though he wouldn’t have minded a couple of fingers of whiskey right about then to fortify his nerves. He wasn’t used to apologizing.
He watched as she poured the hot water into a white china teapot. Even baggy sweats and the apron couldn’t hide her voluptuous figure. He imagined coming up behind her and pulling her back against him as he lightly bit her neck. He remembered her shocked reaction when he’d touched her chin and remained firmly in his seat.
She came to the table carrying a tray on which she’d placed the teapot and two mugs, along with two plates and a small stack of napkins.
“Here, let me,” Mason said, getting to his feet as she set the tray on the table. He poured the steaming tea into the mugs as she returned to the counter and came back with some sliced lemon and a small jar of honey.
As Hannah added lemon and honey to her tea, he asked, “What’s the occasion? Or do you typically bake complicated French pastry on a Friday afternoon just for something to do?”