Smittened (7 page)

“Sorry,” she stammered.

His eyebrows nodded.

His
eyebrows
.

The man was so freaking cocky he could use his
eyebrows
to make her feel like a heel. She shoved his chest.

“You know what? Never mind. I’m
not
sorry. Because you
do
walk around acting like you’re some kind of cosmic gift to the female population of the world, and I don’t want to be one of them anymore.”

“You don’t want to be a woman?”

She shoved him again, because he hadn’t even budged the first time. “I don’t want to be one of your simpering hussies. Or anybody’s sucker. I want to be a nice person who helps people who legitimately need help. Is that so much to ask?”

“In this world? Yep.”

“Would it kill you to be optimistic?”

He tilted his head. Scratched his cheek. Then nodded with his freaking
eyebrows
again. “Probably.”

She wanted to shake him. To give him a shot of happy to combat the grumpies he was carrying around. And she wanted to shake herself for wanting to fix his grumpies. His grumpies were not her problem.
“Argh.”

One side of his lips quirked up in a sexy smirk. “Got a cure for that frustration you got going on,” he said.

“Got a cure for your ego?”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that he was happier now than he’d been when he walked in. As if she’d made him happy by insulting him and picking a fight with him.

She’d never been a giver like
that
before.

Perhaps it was because his dang ego enjoyed winning a fight too much.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I just might.”

And before she could fully backtrack to remembering that they were trying to cure his ego, he lowered his face to hers, brushed her cheek with his nose, and then suckled her bottom lip into his mouth.

A jolt of sheer feminine need shot between her thighs the same time a squeak caught in her throat.

There was a hint of cold to his lips and his fingers when he tangled them in her hair, but the rest of him radiated hotter than a fire. And ducks help her, she didn’t push him away again.

She may have fisted his shirt and yanked him closer. Or possibly parted her lips and kissed him back. It all got a little fuzzy.

A little fuzzy, and a lot
holy yowzers
.

If they weren’t careful, they’d set her house on fire too. Spontaneous kiss combustion. And if he could set every nerve ending she owned up in flames simply by kissing her, she’d probably explode if either of them shed any clothing.

She whimpered.

The sex with Ted hadn’t been as good as this kiss.

Mikey eased out of the kiss, his chest rising and falling rapidly against hers. “Nope,” he said. “Didn’t work.”

“Didn’t…?” she panted.

“Cure my ego.” His grin spread across his lips, but didn’t wipe the vulnerability sneaking into his gray eyes. “Might could be we need to move this to the bedroom to work it out better.”

Her thighs clenched against the rising swell of need aching at the very heart of her womanhood. “You’re hopeless.”

“So save me, Dahlia.” He followed the murmur with a gentle nip at her ear, and she all but melted on the spot.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

Because he knew her weakness. He was using it against her. Shamelessly.

And she didn’t care.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I kinda hate me too.”

And he dropped his hands and turned away and retreated to his bedroom, where he clicked the lock. Loudly.

Her knees gave way, and she sank back into her chair.

Mikey Diamond didn’t need saving.

Chapter Five

MIKEY WAS up with the sun the next morning. Never was his favorite time of day, but he’d heard the damn cats yowling, and he’d guessed that meant Dahlia was awake.

Good thing there wasn’t anybody around to see him tripping over his own two feet to get out of the bedroom before she left for work.

Kissing her hadn’t been his plan last night—his dreams, yes, but his plans, no—but she made him do it. She drove him crazy, and kissing her was the only way he figured he could’ve won that argument.

Huh.

He was getting better at lying to himself too.

He made it into the kitchen in time to see her setting out three separate bowls of cat food. One canned, one dry, one a mix of the first two. She loved on the black and orange cat on the counter, then bent to put the dry food on the floor, giving him a spectacular view of her perfectly curvy, jean-clad backside. The grey cat pounced on the dry food, but she pushed him away with a white socked foot, then bent again and set the mixed food in front of him.

Crazy cat lady had a whole routine for getting each of her cats fed.

“Good boy, Dean,” she cooed. “That’s my sweet patient kitty, Sam. Here you go, Parrot, love.”

Mikey swallowed hard.

Wouldn’t have minded having her spoon-feed him some cheese grits and talk to him like that.

“Don’t step on Marvin,” she said without turning around.

Mikey looked down and yelped.

There was an itty-bitty cat rolling at his feet.

No, not a cat.

A freaking guinea pig.

“He’s next, then I’ll scramble some eggs,” Dahlia said.

“And wash your hands between?” Mikey prompted.

The look she gave him could’ve competed with one or two of Mari Belle’s favorites. Surprised she didn’t give a big ol’ sigh to go along with it. “No need. The cats already licked the pan for me.”

He sucked in a disgusted breath, and her dimpled grin brightened the whole room. “Too easy,
sweet pea
,” she said. She pointed to the coffeepot. “Full strength if you need it. And I’m guessing you do.”

He needed something, and it wasn’t anything he’d ever known he needed before. But the coffee was a good start, so he poured himself a cup—after he rinsed it out plenty good—and then got out of her way while she fed the guinea pig and moved on to whipping up some eggs.

“Been thinking,” Mikey said. “You make pretty good ice cream, and I like to eat ice cream. You’re short on money, I’ve done pretty well for myself. What you need is a business partner.”

She cracked an egg so hard on the counter, it exploded yolky goo all over her hand.

“And maybe a keeper,” Mikey added.

That nastygram she sent him with her eyes could’ve exploded another egg all on its own. “I do not,” she said crisply, “need a partner, nor do I need a
keeper
.”

He eyed the egg splatter on the counter.

“And that one’s yours,” she said.

“C’mon, Dahlia,” he said.

Her shoulders bunched. Just because he said her name.

Was he that much of a jerk?

“I don’t need to be rescued.” She grabbed a long string of paper towels and attacked the egg mess.

“Working on getting your money back from your ex?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she swiped harder at the egg, chasing the mess across the counter.

“Ain’t such a bad idea, letting me help you out,” Mikey said. “Come next month, we’re off on tour. Most likely won’t even have to see me again. Won’t get up in your business, so long as you’re not giving handouts to the next guy what comes along—”

“No.”

“Though I ain’t saying you would. Then you can know where your pets’ next meals are coming from, and I can know you ain’t out there selling God-knows-what next—”

“I said
no
. And I meant no. Capital N, capital O. No-way-in-
hell
no.”

Mikey stared at her over his coffee. What was wrong with his idea? “Ain’t like I’m asking you to sleep with me to get it,” he said. “Just offering. Like friends.”

“Friends.” She shifted her shoulders toward him, her anger brewing hotter than the coffee and messier than that there egg. “Are we
friends
?”

Mikey didn’t have much experience in real relationships with women, but even he could see this wasn’t going where it was supposed to go. “Sure, sweet pea. We’re friends.”

“
Friends
do not kiss and then go lock themselves in separate bedrooms.”

“They do if they want to stay friends.”

Unless he was reading this wrong—which was a pretty decent possibility, all things considered—she’d just silently called him the biggest moron to ever walk out among mere mortal morons.

Huh.

Ain’t anybody ever called him that before. Not even Mari Belle, and she was pretty darned good with the silent insults.

“We’re not friends,” Dahlia said. She snatched a spatula out of a drawer and then slammed it shut. “In case there was any doubt.”

“We might could be,” he said.

Partly because he could see a possibility of Dahlia being one of his few close female friends—Mari Belle and Will’s Aunt Jessie and her psychic being the other three—and partly because he knew it would irritate Dahlia, and irritating her seemed the smarter choice than kissing her again.

And he was definitely getting ideas about kissing her again. Solved their arguing right quick last night.

“Do you have any idea why I don’t want your money?” she snapped.

“Can’t even begin to imagine,” he said honestly.

“And
that
”—she poked the spatula in the air at him—“is why we will
never
be friends.” She slammed the spatula down. “You know what? Make your own damn eggs.”

She stopped to scoop up the guinea pig, then one cat, then a second cat—how, he couldn’t explain, as she still only had two hands, but she pulled it off with flair—then nudged the third cat on out the door, a picture of hot indignation.

And danged if Mikey wasn’t stiff as a lead pipe.

She didn’t want him.

First woman he’d met in months—years—
ever
—who wasn’t Mari Belle that he had more than a passing curiosity about, and she didn’t want him.

This friendship-with-girls crap was for the birds.

THE PROBLEM with running a public ice cream shop was that anyone could come in during open hours, and for the next few days, Mikey did.

Every. Day.

Twice on Friday, and the second time, he brought along his guitar and sat there and plucked at the strings, writing things down, using straws to tap on the table. She couldn’t kick him out—word leaked around town that Billy Brenton’s hot-as-sin drummer liked to hang out at The Milked Duck, and suddenly eighty-four million single women needed ice cream.

On a subfreezing January day.

And he sat there and flirted with Every. Last. Woman.

Right there.

In Dahlia’s shop.

He’d left a twenty tucked into her freezer where the Chocolate Orgasm prototype had been, and then another twenty tucked in where she found a missing sample of her Cherry Popper yesterday.

And he’d had a steak dinner waiting for her when she got home last night too. Complete with candles and crème brulee cupcakes. To thank her for her hospitality, he’d said.

Also to thank her for her hospitality, he’d folded her laundry. Including her underwear.

He’d touched and folded her underwear.

Her
underwear
.

At least, she thought he had. She’d found no evidence that he was having guests during the day while she was working and he
wasn’t
at The Milked Duck, but with the way he flirted so shamelessly when he was in her shop, she wouldn’t have put it past him.

Aside from seeing him at the shop and the steak dinner, she’d mastered the art of avoiding him. She left for work before he was up in the morning, and then took her dinner into her bedroom and ate it in bed while she read.

She needed to ask him how much longer he needed a place to stay, but that would’ve involved talking to him, and she didn’t want to talk to him.

Because when she talked to him, she let herself believe that all his charm was real. That he truly was interested in her as a person, and that the only reason he flirted with everyone in The Milked Duck was to keep business up for her. That he didn’t have any ulterior motives for getting to know her and wanting to stay here. In her house. With her.

He hadn’t offered again to help her out financially, which was good. But he hadn’t left either. And she thought—or perhaps simply wanted to believe—that he truly didn’t understand why his offer was insulting.

She didn’t need
money
. Well, aside from food and rent money. She’d kept The Milked Duck because she loved it. She loved making ice cream, loved coming up with new flavors, loved watching the cream and milk and eggs and sugar go from being their own separate substances to transforming into one creamy, delicious treat that could be served so many ways.

She loved that ice cream was universal. That it made people smile on bad days, that a simple cone could bring utter joy to a child, that she provided comfort food to the world.