Recipe for Love Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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Even with Rowan in my space, I retreated into my mind as I went through the motions of getting my purse and closing the house up for the day.

Maggie rubbed her head against my thigh, as if she could sense that I was spiraling. I scratched her ear, grateful to her for simply existing. I needed a dog. The companionship. The unconditional love they provided. Except I was gone from five in the morning every day. And I could not bring a dog into a bakery since that was a health code violation. So no, it didn’t make sense for me to get a dog. I would just have to make the most of this one.

Maggie trotted happily beside me as I walked to the front door where Rowan was sitting on the reclaimed wood bench at the entryway, putting on his boots.

There it was. Another act of courtesy. Taking off his boots because he didn’t want to dirty my house. Granted, Nathan wore expensive loafers that he went to great pains to keep clean so they wouldn’t make any mess, but it was the principle of the matter.

Comparing one man against the other was not healthy. Not even a little. But there was no comparison. No competition. Of that I was certain.

Rowan didn’t say anything as we walked out the door. Me, Maggie and him. Not as I locked it either.

I thought we’d get in our separate cars and drive off, pretending last night never happened.

Did I hope for that? Maybe. The fearful part of me certainly did.

But another part of me couldn’t imagine going back to whatever we were before, when Rowan was nothing but a man I pretended was my boyfriend. When he wasn’t a man with a dog he loved and a smile that was mine alone.

But I shouldn’t have worried about such things. Because while I was in my head, Rowan was most definitely not in his.

He approached me before I registered what was happening. And when I realized what was really going on, I backed away on instinct, not because I was scared… exactly.

“Nora,” he murmured, caging me against the back of my car, his warm, muscled, impressive body pressing up against mine.

He still smelled like him but with a hint of the soap I kept in the guest shower. The same soap I used. Lavender. Imported from France, where they didn’t pump their personal care products full of chemicals like we did here.

I liked his smell. Loved his smell. But the mixture of his scent and my own? It was much too dangerous. It made me think of… other things mixing together.

That and the fact that his hand was now on my hip, his lips were inches from mine, and he was murmuring my name in what could only be described as a sultry tone.

“What?” I wheezed, my eyelids fluttering rapidly at the vision of him that close up. Unfortunately, there were no gross imperfections, nothing at all to put me off.

“You’re not drunk anymore.” He slowly ran the back of his knuckles along my jaw.

I shivered at the intimate gesture.

“I was never drunk,” I argued, or at least tried to. My voice was thin and weak, barely above a whisper. “Tipsy at the most.”

“Fine.” His eyes searched mine. “You’re not tipsy anymore. So…”

“So?” I asked, barely audible.

“So, me kissing you wouldn’t be takin’ advantage of you.”

My heart drummed double time, and it was already pounding pretty damn hard. For the first time in my life, I did not assume my physical symptoms were due to some life-altering or ending disease. I didn’t think of anything, actually, apart from the way Rowan smelled, the warmth of his body against mine, and the way his words vibrated through me.

“Technically, I-I’m not in full possession of my faculties until I’ve had my second cup of coffee,” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure why I was saying that, weakly trying to argue against him kissing me.

I had been imagining this man kissing me ever since I laid eyes on him. But now I was stalling. Because I was scared. Terrified of what kissing him might mean. I was sure, utterly sure, that once he kissed me, nothing would ever be the same again.

Rowan didn’t kiss me, though. His grip on my hip tightened some, his other hand clasping the back of my neck.

“You want me to kiss you or not, cupcake?”

The ground rocked underneath me as the question bounced around in my head. I scrambled to grab a hold of it so I could keep it, revisit it later, file this moment away.

“I would very much like for you to kiss me,” I said, so quietly I wasn’t certain he’d heard me.

Apparently, he did because the second the words were out, his mouth was on mine.

I thought he’d kiss me gently at first. Ever since he saw the bruise on my face, he’d been handling me with great care. Like I was breakable.


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