Here went nothing.

7

Man, she was in so much trouble.

She wanted him to stick around. A lot.

The words had just hung in the air between them after she’d said them and then he’d winked at her and left before she could emphasize, “for the next couple of days.”

Not that she’d rushed to say that.

It wasn’t like she thought there was a chance he might stay more than that.

He lived in Louisiana. He worked in Louisiana. His entire family—which was, evidently, quite large—was in Louisiana.

Plus she did not want him to stay. Not like stay stay. She was the one who got itchy when a guy wanted to go out two days in a row. Of course, around here, two dates two days in a row meant they were going to discuss honeymoon destinations.

So, no, she did not want Mitch to stay any longer. The story about him and Tori would only hold up so long anyway.

But then he walked into her apartment.

Just let himself in as if he belonged there. Shrugged out of his coat—well, Max’s coat—tossed it on the chair as if that was where he always tossed his coat when he came home and stalked toward her.

Her heart started pounding. His nose was a little red from the cold but otherwise, he looked very hot. She realized she’d been imagining him with a tool belt on, even though she’d known he hadn’t used a tool belt, while confidently fixing anything and everything anyone threw at him. Smiling and being charming the whole time he did it. Saving the damned Apple Festival that she honestly hadn’t cared much about since she was a teenager and she and her friends would go and hope to get caught under the mistletoe.

Now she dodged that damned weed like it was poison ivy.

But the idea that Mitch had fixed the power in the town square, and everyone would know he was the big savior… like Santa, albeit a few weeks late, or maybe like the Grinch when he came blazing into town with all the decorations and gifts after finding his Christmas spirit…made tingles spread through her body. And made her wish for mistletoe.

Though the look on his face at the moment made her pretty sure she wasn’t going to need it.

“Hi, how did it—” she started.

He cupped the back of her head and brought her in for a kiss. A very hot, deep, wet, backing-her-up-against-the-wall kiss.

Merry Late Christmas indeed.

She wrapped herself around him and gave a little hop to help when he scooped his hands under her ass and picked her up. He set her on the countertop next to the stove. Where she’d been stirring chocolate and marshmallow fluff together for fudge.

Shit.

She pulled back from him, breathing hard. “Welcome back.”

He grinned. “Take your clothes off.”

“In five minutes,” she said, pushing him back and sliding to the floor.

“Now,” he insisted, catching the hem of her top and slipping his hands up underneath it to her stomach as she turned to face the stove.

“I can’t let this burn,” she said, her inner muscles clenching hard as he dragged his palm back and forth over her stomach.

“You don’t have to cook for me.” He put his mouth against her neck, rubbing his beard up and down the sensitive skin.

Goose bumps broke out over her whole body making her wiggle against him. And the very prominent erection pressing into her back. She wiggled again just for good measure.

He gave a low growl. “Keep doing that and I’m tossing that whole pot in the sink, and you can just angry fuck me over it.”

Her shiver was stronger this time and she sighed. He surprised her with the dirty talk and it always had a strong, immediate effect on her body.

“We need this fudge,” she told him. But she had to concentrate on the stirring as his hands moved up to cup her breast.

She hadn’t put her bra back on, and he teased the bare nipple making her whimper softly.

“Don’t need anything but you,” he said gruffly against her ear, tugging on the hard tip.

“We need it for bribery,” she said, her eyes sliding closed as she gave the bubbling chocolate a half-assed stir.

“Who are we bribing?”

“Drew Ryan.”

“Why does Drew need to be bribed?”

“Because he knows that you’re not Tori’s fiancé,” she explained. “We need to ask him to play along with our story when he’s out and about at the festival and hears about the fix-it guy who saved the day.”

“And he won’t just do it because he’s a nice guy?”

“Well, the fudge won’t hurt.”

Mitch slipped the hand not tormenting her breast into the front of her pants. She also still did not have panties on. His finger slid over her clit making fire lick down her legs and her have to grip the counter with her free hand.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fudge maker,” he said. “You’re pretty sugar-free, gluten-free healthy.”

She nodded. “I know. I’m an enigma. I happen to make the best damned fudge you’ve ever tasted. I started making it before I became a full ‘health nut’ as my father calls it. So now people beg me for it and what can I say, I’m flattered, so I give in.”

Or she said something like that. There was no way she could have repeated any of it. Mitch’s finger was circling her clit in lazy loops, and her whole body was melting just like the blob of marshmallow fluff in the pot.

“How much longer?” he asked, sliding his finger lower and teasing her opening.

Her knees wobbled slightly, and she had to take a second before cracking one eye—not realizing her eyes were shut—and peeking at the timer. “Just another minute.”

He slid his finger into her and she gasped, clutching the counter.

“Stir, Paige,” he said softly, moving his finger in and out.

“You’re so mean,” she said, practically whispering.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, sliding deeper. “Really?”

“No. God, no.” She stirred a little faster and focused on not coming.

But damn, he was so good at this. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a guy who got her going the way he did.

She was never going to be able to make fudge without thinking of this.

The timer went off, the beeping the best sound she’d ever heard.

“I have to move,” she said, picking the pot up from the burner.

He did remove his hands from her body, which she definitely regretted, but as she poured the liquid fudge from the pot into the rectangular pan to set, she heard the rustle of clothes and glanced over her shoulder to find him toeing his boots off and shrugging out of his shirt.

She stopped and stared. Yes. God, she loved this man naked.

Something sharp stung her foot and she jumped, looking to find that fudge was dripping from the spoon in her hand onto her foot.

Dammit!

She quickly dumped the pot and spoon in the sink and checked the cake pan. The fudge was spread evenly, and she, somehow, hadn’t burned it. She carried it to the fridge and slid it onto the lowest shelf. Then she turned to Mitch, pulling her shirt up and over her head.

“Anyone else coming over?” he asked, his hot gaze on her breasts and his hands on his fly.

“Grandpa’s been here and gone.”