She should bring him some of these cookies, as that thank you she owed him. It was the right thing to do, the polite thing to do. Thank-you-for-the-perfect-sex cookies.
Still grinning, she put a batch in the oven and ate some more dough, which made her happy, and received two prank calls, which annoyed her. She watched Letterman, which didn’t annoy her, and finally went to bed, still grinning a little bit.
When she got to work the next morning, she’d managed to downgrade the grin to a smile, but as she entered the building, nerves replaced it. How was she going to look Jacob in the eye after getting naked with him?
On her worktable.
She still had the imprint of a slide on her ass. . . .
But it turned out she’d worried for nothing. While the construction equipment was still blocking most of the hallway, Jacob was nowhere in sight. If he’d worked all night long, he was probably catching a quick nap, or maybe breakfast, so she brought the container of cookies she’d made him into her office, where they proceeded to call her name all morning. By lunch she’d peeked out her door so often for a sight of her Mr. Wrong that two of his workers thought she was stalking them. Annoyed at herself, she ate a few of the cookies.
Just a few.
All afternoon she could hear Jacob’s voice on the Nextels of his workers as they communicated, and every time she did, she felt the urge to eat a few more cookies.
By quitting time she’d consumed a total of seven, leaving only five.
Alice stuck her head in Maggie’s door to wave good-bye and Maggie absentmindedly waved back, sneaking out one more cookie. She was thinking about the last four when Alice called her cell phone.
“Didn’t you just leave?” Maggie asked her.
“I did. I am. Your car has a flat.”
Dammit. She needed new tires. “Okay, I’ll call Triple A, thanks.”
“Call now so you don’t have to wait.”
“I will.” She hung up and looked at the cookies. Stress. Stress made her hungry. Jacob didn’t need four cookies, they were huge. So she took one more while she went back to her computer, and when she looked up again another hour had passed and the construction workers were gone.
And so was their stuff.
They were done, they were gone, and Mr. Wrong hadn’t even come to say good-bye. That hurt. But it also meant that the cookies were hers, so she ate one more and called Janie. “I made Jacob a dozen cookies and ate all but two by myself. Not counting the dozen I ate last night.”
“This is why you’re single.”
“Thanks.” She hung up and took her loser self to the parking lot where she found her flat tire and remembered that she’d forgotten to call Triple A. With a sigh, she sank to the curb by her car and pulled out the Tupperware.
Yep, two cookies left.
A double loser.
Jacob had his final check in hand, including the bonus that they’d earned by the skin of their teeth. It’d been a helluva tough forty-eight hours but he was done.
Free.
Leaving Scott’s office, he went by Maggie’s to say good-bye before heading to the airport. He hadn’t had a moment to breathe all day, but he’d thought about her. Thought about her and how she’d looked sitting on her worktable with no panties . . .
Her office was dark. He’d missed her. Frustrated, exhausted, and now disappointed, he left the building. It was a typical L.A. winter evening, fifty-five degrees with a rare addition—clouds gathering, blocking out any moon or starlight—not that there was ever much of that visible in downtown Los Angeles anyway.
The streets were decorated with red garland and festive colored lights, along with a long string of red brake lights—business traffic trying to get to the freeway. He walked through the parking lot and came to a surprised stop in front of Maggie, sitting on the curb by her car, eating . . . a cookie? “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“What are you doing?”
“Eating a cookie.”
“Okay.” He waited for her to expand on that but she didn’t.
“You can just ignore me,” she said instead.
Uh-huh. As if he could. Nothing about her was ignorable, not from the tips of her toes poking out her high-heeled sandals all the way up those sweet, lush curves to the strands of her adorably messy hair. “Why are you sitting on the curb?”
“I was talking on my cell to my sister. Just doing my part of the statistic that says the average American spends two years on the phone.”
“I’m not anywhere close to average.”
“I know. You’re bigger.” She covered her face. “Sorry. Sugar rush. Too many cookies. Waaay too many.”
She had a dab of chocolate on the corner of her mouth, and he found himself fixated on that. “What, no facts on cookies?”
“Oh, I have cookie facts. I was just trying to hold back.”
“You don’t have to hold back with me, Maggie.”
“Okay. Did you know it was Ruth Graves Wakefield who first used candy-bar chocolate in a cookie recipe while at the Toll House Inn circa 1930?” She waved a cookie. “And
voilà,
chocolate chip cookies were born.”
“Good one. So why are you sitting out here eating cookies?”
“Actually, technically, they’re
your
cookies.”
She was wearing another skirt today, a pencil skirt, with her legs demurely tucked beneath her, but he could see her knees, and the Band-Aids there. Her jacket was open over a blouse the same light blue as her eyes. She looked extremely buttoned up and extremely put together—if one didn’t count her hair, which was once again defying gravity with what appeared to be a stir stick shoved into it.
And the chocolate at the corner of her mouth, let’s not forget that, because he couldn’t tear his eyes off of it, or understand the sudden insane urge to lean down and lick it off.
But he had his bag packed and in his truck, and a plane to catch.
Maggie took the last bite of the cookie and brushed her fingers off. “I should have baked three dozen.”
“You bake?”
“Yes, and I’m good, too.”
“I bet you are.” He sat at her side, so tired he had no idea if he could get back up again. She smelled like chocolate. He had a feeling she would taste even better. Reaching out with his finger, he ran it over the corner of her mouth.
She pulled back. “What are you doing?”
“You have a little chocolate—”
“Oh, God.” Her tongue darted out, collided with the pad of his finger. It was like an electric bolt straight to his groin.
“Did I get it?”
“No.” He smiled. “You smeared it a little. Here.” Again he glided his finger over her lips, then sucked that finger into his own mouth.
Her eyes were glued to him. “Oh,” she breathed softly.
Yeah, oh. Traffic rushed all around them, and they sat there in their own little world. He had to get to the airport, and yet he didn’t get back up. Instead, he leaned in so that their mouths were only a breath apart. “Let me get that last little bit—”
“Where—” Her tongue darted out, attempting to lick the chocolate off. “There?”
He smiled. “No.”
She licked it again. “Now?”
“No.”
“Dammit, Jacob.”
“That’s Mr. Wrong, to you.” And still holding her face, he dropped his gaze from hers to look at her mouth, absorbing her little murmur of anticipation before he closed the gap and kissed her.
6
I
t was the sugar rush, Maggie told herself. That, combined with the feel of Jacob pressed up against her again, and the warmth of his mouth . . . God. This was all his fault for being such a good kisser, all his fault, she thought as she pulled him even closer.
His reaction was an immediate approving rumble from deep in his chest and a tightening of his arms. So she hugged him tighter and gave him some tongue.
Hauling her into his lap with a groan, he kissed her long and hard and wet right there in the parking lot, until her entire body shivered in delight and anticipation.
She knew what he could do for her now, to her, and that made the longing worse. Given the sound he made, and how deliciously hard he’d gotten, he felt the same. The thrill of that surged through her. This big, bad, gorgeous man had already had her and
still
wanted her.
She felt drunk on the knowledge. Or it might have been the sugar. Either way, he had one arm around her, the other on her jaw, holding her face for his kiss; but then he pulled back, let out an unsteady breath and a short laugh. “There’s no door to lock this time.” He rose and offered her a hand, turning to her car. “Uh-oh. What happened to your tire?”
“It got a flat.”
He crouched down next to it. “Yes, because someone slashed it.” He took a careful look around them before cutting his no-longer-heated eyes to hers. “How long were you sitting here alone before I came?
“Wait.
Slashed ?
” She took a closer look. “Do you think it was random?”
“Slashed tire seems pretty personal. You annoy anyone lately?”
“I annoy a lot of people. It’s part of my charming nature.” Spooked, she just stared at him. Her brain didn’t feel like it was getting enough oxygen, so she decided to sit. Her tire had been slashed. Merry Christmas to her.
Ah, hell. Jacob looked over Maggie’s head to where his truck was parked, complete with a plane ticket sitting on the front seat.
But he wasn’t going anywhere.
And not just because his heart rate was still affected by that kiss, or because Maggie’s lush mouth was still wet from his and he wanted to see what else was wet, but because he had a bad feeling that this smart, adorable, sexy woman who was nothing but trouble was
in
trouble. “Do you have a spare?”
“Yes.” Her voice was muffled, but then she lifted her head. “And I took a class on how to change it, too.”
Of course she had. He had a feeling this careful, organized, brilliant sexy mess could do anything she set her mind to.
“Is it hot?” she asked. “I feel hot. Maybe it’s nerves.”
“It’s not hot. It’s actually chilly.”
“Did you know that minus forty degrees Celsius is exactly the same as minus forty degrees Fahrenheit?”
“That’s a new one for me.” Knowing she was about to lose it, he took her hand. “Listen, how about I change the tire for you, while you call the police and make a report.”
“What if it’s just one of the twenty-two percent of random, senseless acts of violence that people face in their lifetime?”
He slid her a glance. “You know, you’d really kick ass on
Jeopardy.
”
“I already did. That’s how I paid for my PhD.”
He shook his head in admiration as he pulled out his cell phone and called the police himself, but due to a high volume of calls, they wouldn’t even come out and take a report.
“It’s okay.” Maggie pulled out her keys. “I’ll just get the spare—Uh-oh,” she said when she opened the trunk.
“Uh-oh?” He peered over her shoulder and saw nothing but stacks of craft supplies. “Where’s your spare?”
“My sister borrowed my car. She’s been volunteering at her kids’ school, and my trunk is bigger than hers. She must have taken out the spare.” She sighed. “Dammit. I’ll call her.”
“How about I just take you home?”
She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes still soft and heated, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not spooked at having your tire slashed but you’re spooked at me driving you home?”
“Of course not.” She gnawed her cheek a moment. “It’s just that if we go to my house . . .”
He liked where that sentence was going. “Yeah?”
“Nothing. A ride would be great, thank you.”
She squirmed all the way to her place in the Glendale Hills above L.A., her brain working so hard he could practically hear the wheels whirling. He pulled into the gated complex of her condo unit and looked at her. “Maggie.”
She jumped. “Yes?”
“You do know this was just a ride, right?”
Her face flushed. “Of course. Just because we . . .”
“Had sex.”
She winced. “Yes, that. Which doesn’t mean we’re going to pull off all our clothes and have
more
sex.”
“Do you want to?”
She stared at him. “It was just a one-time thing.” She seemed to hold her breath. “Right?”
He stroked a strand of hair along her temple. “It’s whatever we want it to be. What do you want it to be, Maggie?”
“That’s sort of the problem,” she whispered. “I didn’t think this far ahead, which is really unlike me.”
“You like to think ahead.”
“I really do.”
“Okay, you go ahead and think on it then.” He walked her to her door, where she turned to face him, pressing her spine up against the wood. “Thanks so much for the ride, but you don’t have to come in.”
“I want to. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because someone slashed your tire.”
“That was random.”
“Okay, but if I promise not to look at you even if you do strip your clothes off, can I please come in and make sure everything’s okay?”
“You wouldn’t look?” She looked intrigued at this. “Really?”
“Not if you didn’t want me to.”
“Oh.” She looked so crestfallen, he laughed, and unable to help himself, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her in. “If you begged me,” he murmured in her ear. “Maybe I’d look then.”
She smiled, and it obliterated a few million of her brain cells.
“Okay, truth,” he said. “I’d look. I’d look for a long time, and then I’d touch.”
“Oh,” she breathed, sounding a little turned on. “Really?”
“And then I’d taste. I’d lick and nibble and—”
The sound of glass shattering broke the night’s silence. “What was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She pulled out her keys and unlocked her front door, looking up at him questioningly when he held her back so he could enter first.
Her condo was dark, but enough of the streetlights shined in through the windows that he could see the living room was empty, and so was the kitchen. But the sliding glass door between the two, leading out onto a deck, was wide open to the night. “Did you leave the door like that?”