Icing on the Cake (Wild Wedding Series Book 2) Page 3

  She cleared her throat. “What are you trying to find?”

  “My home.” He smiled that lopsided grin again and her stomach did a little flip. This guy was too good to be true. In her wildest dreams she couldn’t have conjured anyone more delicious, even after a night binging on rom-coms and cookie dough ice cream.

  “Your home?”

  He nodded. “At least for the next three nights. A cozy little B&B.” His brow knit together. “Oh bloody hell, now I’ve forgotten the name.”

  Cassie laughed as realization hit her. “The reason you keep ending up back in the same spot is because this is exactly where you need to be.”

  Now the stranger was the one who was taken aback. “Come again?”

  For a moment Cassie was tempted to break out of her mold and hit him with the type of snappy comeback Olivia would have no doubt used as a follow-up to such obvious innuendo. But true to form, she merely smiled sweetly as she explained, “The B&B is above the bakery.” She pointed to the spot on the map that was right where they were currently standing. “Here.”

  The stranger leaned closer, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of his soap. It was clean and yet a little spicy and made her want to lick his neck. Because yeah, that was something a perfectly sane woman would do. Cassie had no idea what had gotten into her, but one thing was certain, her level of hard-up was even worse than she thought.

  His eyes narrowed on the map and he rubbed the shadow of stubble that covered his jaw. On some guys a bit of scruff made them just look like they needed a shave, but in this case it made him seem rugged and, if possible, even more mysterious. Whether or not that was intentional on his part, or just a few lazy days off from the razor, it was totally working. As Cassie watched him scrutinize the map, she couldn’t help but wonder how that prickly stubble would feel beneath her fingertips, against her cheek, or maybe between her thighs . . .

  “What do you know?” he said, interrupting her seriously depraved and deprived mind. “After all that, I am right where I need to be.”

  If only, she thought as she handed him back the map. When he reached for it, his fingers lingered on hers. His hands were soft, softer than she’d ever felt on a man.

  And then his eyes met hers and all at once she wanted those hands touching her in places she’d never considered letting a man touch on a first date. First date? Whoa, where the heck did that come from? This wasn’t a first date. In fact, it wasn’t a date at all. It was simply a stranger stopping in for directions. Yet there was something about him, something irresistibly seductive that drew her to him like a moth to a flame.

  He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, his eyes seeming to take in every detail from the tousled curls pinned haphazardly atop of her head, to her lips and flushed cheeks. And dear God, the way he looked at her neck, like he wanted to sink his teeth into that sensitive spot that never failed to turn her on and yet still make her giggle. The energy between them crackled with anticipation. Then again, maybe it was all in her head. Maybe she’d finally read one too many romance novels and her brain was permanently rewired to think every handsome stranger had the potential to be Mr. Right. Or at the very least, Mr. Right Now.

  “Shame really.”

  “What is?” Her voice sounded all breathy, as though the air in the shop was suddenly too thick.

  “Shame you’re closed because whatever you’re baking smells delicious.”

  “Would you like a taste?” Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips, and the stranger’s eyes widened ever so slightly before darkening into a look that quite frankly could have torched a perfect creme brûlée.

  “I’d like that very much,” he breathed as he moved closer.

  Oh Lord, did he think she meant . . .

  Cassie took a step back and felt the cool glass of the refrigerated display case press against her overheated skin. Her handsome stranger leaned in, bracing one hand against the glass beside her head, and a devilish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The look on his face would have been almost predatory if he weren’t so damn cute. And sweet Jesus, was that a dimple on the left side?

  A beat of silence ticked between them offering her the perfect opportunity to play it safe, to explain what she actually meant and end the whole matter with an awkward laugh. But this handsome stranger had awakened something deep inside her and for once in her life Cassandra Miller didn’t feel like playing it safe. Instead she felt wild and reckless, and the last thing she wanted was to end the moment in any way at all. In fact, she wanted to prolong it, to suspend it in time like something from The Matrix. Then maybe she could even step back and watch from all angles because holy hell, this gorgeous stranger was going to kiss her. Right there. In the shop. With her hair up in a messy bun and flour and dough all over her hands. And what’s more, she was going to let him. So instead of playing it safe, Cassie lifted her chin just as he dipped his head and then. . .

  . . . and then the smoke alarm began to screech in the next room.

  “The cupcakes!” she gasped. Her stranger stepped aside as Cassie hurried through the swinging steel door. Smoke billowed from the convection oven and all at once she knew that the last batch of cupcakes was ruined. Just like their moment.

  Chapter Three

  Hank closed the door to the shop behind him and ran a hand back through his hair. Had he really almost pressed that girl up against a refrigerator and kissed her? Yes, he had. And who was he kidding, he would have fucked her up against that fridge if she’d have let him. Way to live up to the stereotype. But Christ, she was sweet and kind and smelled like vanilla—granted, maybe that was the shop—but when her fingers brushed against his, the sensation shot straight to his cock. And when she offered him a taste and her delicate pink tongue darted out to wet her lips he’d nearly come in his pants.

  He turned around, unable to resist stealing once last glance through the shop’s glass storefront. His beautiful pastry chef was back to work, but he could still see her through the kitchen door’s portal-like window. As he watched her, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was about this girl that had him so instantly enamored. In her apron and trainers, she was far from his usual type. Then again, he usually met women in one of two scenarios: public events designed to see and be seen by royalty, or nightclubs designed to see and be seen by anyone willing to pop for bottle service. Both were decidedly stiletto events. For all he knew, this was how all women dressed when they weren’t on the hunt. Still, it wasn’t just the way her faded jeans hugged her generous curves that had caught his attention. It was more than that, although for the life of him he couldn’t put his finger on what.

  A wisp of an auburn curl slipped in front of her green eyes. He watched as she reached up to brush it back with her wrist, leaving a smudge of flour just above her delicate brow, and all at once he pictured those curls fanned out across a pillow, those wrists held together above her head, and those eyes clouded with the haze of an orgasm. The thought had an audible groan vibrating in the back of his throat. He knew he should keep walking, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And despite the small, yet rational part of his brain that told him he was on the verge of being a right proper creeper, he stood his ground, taking in the sight of her as if his very life depended on committing every detail to memory.

  She turned toward the door and he jerked back, drawing a sharp breath as he flattened himself against the brick wall of the shop. For a moment he feared he’d been seen, but when he risked a peek around the window frame he was relieved to find her still working and, more important, blissfully unaware of her audience of one. She was facing away from him this time, and although being discovered would make him look like the town pervert, he lingered for a moment more, letting himself enjoy the sight of her very fine, denim-clad ass. His vantage point didn’t afford a full view, not that it mattered. What he couldn’t see his memory was more than happy to fill in, although at the moment his mind was busy conjuring images of her wearing nothing but that red
apron—her flawless pale skin a sharp contrast to the bright fabric—and a pair of matching stilettos that would make her the perfect height for bending over the counter . . .

  Fuck me, he thought. His mind was staging a full-on bakery porn. While lurking outside a storefront. He chuckled to himself as he stepped into the street. Not exactly low profile.

  Adjusting the front of his button fly jeans, Hank squinted into the setting sun. It had to be close to six, which meant Clayton was probably on the verge of launching an international search party. The responsible thing would be to head on up to the B&B and put the poor man out of his misery, but at the moment his brain was taking a number behind his cock.

  He was just about to make a U-turn back to the bakery when a familiar voice called his name.

  “Henry?” Matthew said. “It is you. Christ, I barely recognized you without the beard.” He clapped a hand on Hank’s shoulder and pulled him into a man hug. “Was worried you’d missed your flight, but then I remembered you don’t fly commercial like the rest of us peasants.”

  “Landed a while ago actually. Just been getting to know this charming town a bit better.” His gaze instinctively shifted over Matthew’s shoulder to the bakery’s red-and-white awning. Sue’s Sweets & Treats was printed across it in intricate scroll. Sue . . . his beautiful stranger didn’t seem like a Sue to him, not that he knew exactly what a Sue looked like or that it mattered. The important thing was he now had a name to go with the angelic face. Not to mention the naughty fantasies.

  Matthew glanced at his watch. “Well, you better get a move on.”

  Hank frowned. “Am I late?”

  It should have been a rhetorical question. Despite having a team of what he sarcastically referred to as his caretakers, Hank was late to almost every event, personal or public. In most cases it was of little consequence. After all, they couldn’t very well launch a new ship until he smashed the champagne across the bow, now could they? But in this instance, he was flying solo. Last thing he wanted was to crash and burn on takeoff.

  “Dinner? The pub? All the dicks, none of the chicks?” Matthew rattled off prompts. “Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Right, right, the stag night that’s not really a stag night.”

  “It was Em’s idea, for the guys who couldn’t make it to Vegas. Mostly older family members—our dads, her uncles, a few cousins and family friends.”

  “And yours truly.” Hank shook his head. “Bloody shame that was.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. One of the guys ended up hitched that weekend.

  “No shit? I thought that only happened in the movies.”

  “Long story. But you’ll meet him this weekend, so you can ask him yourself. Makes for good entertainment. He and his bride tell very different versions of the same story. After a few drinks you can really wind them up.”

  “I look forward to it. Not as much as I was looking forward to those lap dances though. Still gutted over that one.”

  “Well, you’ll have to spend your singles at the juke box because sadly there aren’t any lap dances in your future tonight.”

  “Singles?” Hank tsked. “Didn’t I teach you anything in Monte Carlo?”

  “We can’t all pull out a roll of hundreds.”

  A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Hank’s mouth. “Ah, but if you do, you get a far better grind.”

  Matthew laughed. “No happy endings tonight I’m afraid. Just dinner and drinks with the guys, then as much pool as we can play before we pass out.”

  “Sounds like far too many balls for this bloke.”

  Matthew’s smile faded as he looked left, then right. “Shouldn’t there be some really scary looking Secret Service types lurking around?”

  Hank rolled his eyes. “Secret Service is a yank term.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” Matthew corrected himself. “Shouldn’t there be someone from Her Majesty’s Royal Babysitting Club lurking around?”

  “You’re an arse,” Hank groused, but truth be told he’d missed this. His flatmates from uni were the only people who ever gave him shit about anything, let alone busted his balls. It was a nice change of pace from the constant ass-kissing he was subjected to back home. “Contrary to what you may think, I am quite capable of taking a stroll through town without causing an international incident.” Just don’t ask me to find my way with nothing but a crumpled map, he thought. Almost instantly images of his beautiful stranger flooded his mind.

  “So long as they don’t send out a royal search party. The dogs and horses will trash the gardens.”

  Hank snorted. “More like tanks and Humvees.”

  “Right, as if you’re that important. Isn’t there a cousin or someone who could take your place?’

  Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Fair point. There is one in nappies. But then poor Clayton would be sent to the tower, and as much as the man annoys me, I’d hate to see his head on the block on my account. Speaking of, I better check in before we really do have the military invading this sweet little town.” A few hours MIA was about as far as Hank wanted to push poor Clayton.

  “Fuck, yeah, Emily will kill me if the tulips are trampled. And my dad will kill me if he doesn’t get to make his toast before dinner—something about a bottle of scotch he’s been saving since I was born—so put a move on.”

  “I’ll grab my mobile and be ready to go.”

  Matthew looked at Hank as though he had two heads. “Don’t you want to change?”

  “Casual night at the pub, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I just assumed you’d be wearing some designer shit.” He smirked. “Or the bat suit,” he added, no doubt referring to the full dress regalia Hank wore to formal events. Then his eyes narrowed as he took a closer look at his friend. “Since when are you a Bulldogs fan?”

  Hank adjusted his cap. “Trying to blend in, mate. So, can we cool it on the royal ballbusting?”

  Matthew tried his best to look offended. “Would I do that?”

  “Yes, you would. Thoroughly and repeatedly. But aside from you, none of these chaps have a clue about my alter ego and I’d like to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”

  “Right.” Matthew chuckled.

  Hank gazed at him nonplussed.

  “You’re serious?”

  Hank nodded. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to just be one of the guys this weekend.”

  “That explains the shave and the longer hair,” he said, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “But you really don’t think anyone will recognize you? I mean, I can’t even run to the store for milk without seeing your face in the checkout line.”

  “My supermarket notoriety notwithstanding, you said yourself you barely recognized me. And besides, no one will be expecting European royalty at your wedding. No offense.”

  “None taken. But introducing yourself as Prince Henry will sort of be a dead giveaway.”

  “Which is why this weekend I’m simply Hank Green, in from the East Coast.”

  Matthew chuckled. “That accent is nowhere close to New England.”

  Hank shrugged. “Tell them I bummed around Europe after uni.”

  “At least that part’s true.” Matthew eyed him as though he still needed convincing. “So you really don’t plan to flash the royal crest in a pathetic attempt to get free drinks and more pussy than one man could ever need?”

  “First of all, there’s no such thing as too much pussy. Second, I reference the ballbusting comment from two minutes ago. And third . . .” He let out a breath and fixed his mate with a sincere gaze. “I’m completely and utterly serious.”

  “Fine,” Matthew said after several excruciating beats. “But if you think this gets you out of buying a round of drinks, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate. I have a whole stack of your ridiculous same-shaped currency ready to go.”

  The location Matthew’s family had chosen to host his “stag night that wasn’t really a stag night” was an Irish pub on Main St
reet. The name didn’t inspire much hope, but despite sounding more like a place for ribs than pints, Bub’s Irish Pub was actually quite authentic. The wood-paneled walls were as dark as the beer, and the bartender who greeted them upon arrival had a brogue thick enough to rival those on the Emerald Isle’s western coast. The generous pours of Jameson weren’t too bad either, but it was the view that topped Hank’s list. Their group had a private room above the bar that overlooked the center of town, and if he positioned his chair just right, Hank had a clear shot of the small bakery at the end of the street. He was ashamed to say, his chair had been at that angle most of the night.

  Christ, he was a right tosser for acting this way. This was a boys’ night: drinking and debauchery and then another round of drinking. And while the odds of a literal roll in the hay with an overserved, overly sentimental bridesmaid were definitely in his favor, that wasn’t what this trip was about. Chasing tail, as the Americans so eloquently put it, was something he could do any day at home, or pretty much anywhere else for that matter. The next few days were about reconnecting with an old friend. It had been years since he’d seen Matthew. Life after uni had taken them in different directions: Matthew to Harvard to study international business and Henry back home to study the family business. They’d kept in touch, but despite their best intentions, something—usually Henry’s obligations—kept them from following through on their plans to get together. Which was why this weekend was so important. This was a time for Hank to be one of Matthew’s mates, just another bloke in town for the festivities, not a playboy prince on the prowl.

  But no matter how hard he focused on the evening at hand, he couldn’t get his beautiful stranger out of his mind. He tried his best to engage in the various conversations, chatting with Emily’s Uncle Bob about the future of peanut oil or Matthew’s father about the merits of scotch over bourbon. He even attempted to feign interest in sports when a group of Emily’s cousins began talking about their fantasy baseball teams, but when the largest one hijacked the conversation to the topic of the NFL draft, he was done. After years in the public eye, Hank could bullshit his way through any number of mind-numbing conversations, but even he couldn’t pretend to give a flying fuck about American football.