Manipulative Attraction

8. ⚛️ Too Close for Comfort

Jeannie hurried after the man making his way toward her kitchen.

"What are you baking?" he inquired. He squat in front of the oven and opened the door, inhaling the sweet aroma. His thick eyelashes fluttered down and his aquiline nose, crinkled. How Thorne had tilted his head back, reminded Jeannie of a lion tested the air for a jungle delicacy.

With his back to her, Jeannie felt free to let her gaze travel over his broad back. Every time Thorne breathed, his lats expanded and her heart pitter-pattered like raindrops on the sidewalk.

What a view!

Thorne turned, catching her ogling him. Jeannie's cheeks flamed with embarrassed heat. She dropped her hungry expression, changing her concentration to the strings of her flour-dusted apron by fiddling with hem.

Before she even knew he'd moved, Thorne had stood and was halfway to her. He came closer. She took a step back—right into the mahogany hutch that held the antique bone china and the .925 silverware. Thorne stopped his advance only when his minty breath moved the curls on her forehead. Catching her chin with his fingers, he tilted her face upward.

"Are you making some type of cake? What kind is it?"

Forced to look at him, her blood pressure skyrocketed as his green eyes locked onto her panicked caramel ones. Jeannie did her best to answer him. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out except for an unintelligible string of jumbled words.

"What did you say?" Thorne whispered, his thumb caressing her bottom lip. Jeannie clamped her knees together to keep them from buckling. The movement caused her butt to jut into the hutch, rattling the dishes within.

After a few tries, she found her voice. "Applesauce cake," Jeannie blurted out. Granted, it was an incoherent answer to his last question, but at least she had said something.

Thorne nodded, moving his digits along her chin. He stopped when he hit her carotid artery.

"You have an elevated pulse," Thorne murmured, his Southern drawl thicker than ever. "Why is that?"

Warmed by his body heat and entranced by his nearness, Jeannie grew bold and daring. "Would you like to try some?" she said, tilting her face upwards.

Thorne's eyes became as soft as green clover and his unusual lips lifted in a smile.

"Oh, yeah," he replied, lowering his head.

A loud knock sounded at the door. Thorne stepped back, his expression growing sullen at the interruption.

Jeannie held a hand to her heart to stop its erratic beating. "I'm sorry, my guests are here," she said, lowering her confused eyes from his darkened ones.

Thorne moved past her and into the living room. "Then you had better let them in."

He plopped down on the couch, picked up a magazine from her coffee table, and started to flip through it. Jeannie got the impression that he was in no hurry to leave.

She was still flustered and confused as she fumbled at the knot in her apron. "This darned thing!" she exclaimed, her trembling fingers failing to loosen the ties.

"Come here, Jeannie. Let me do it."

She moved until she stood before him. Thorne sat up straighter, his long muscular legs, flexing under his jeans. Inserting a finger into the waistband of her apron, he pulled her between his open thighs.

Jeannie went willingly. The movement had brought her close to him, something she had been aching to do since she met him. She made the most of the opportunity by admiring how his wheat-colored hair shimmered in the sunlight. Wanting to touch his tawny mane, she lifted a hand, and ever so gently, smoothed the top of his hair.

Thorne tensed, then leaned into her palm, tightening his legs around hers. Jeannie let out an audible gasp as his hands circled her waist, holding her a willing hostage. With a few quick plucks at the knot, he pulled off her apron and flung it on the couch. His hands, now at her hips, inched around and cupped her backside.

Jeannie ran her fingers from his forehead to the nape of his neck, fanning the golden strands around his shoulders. When Thorne crushed Jeannie to him, his arms holding her in an iron hug, Jeannie's heart sped up—zero to sixty in under ten seconds.

The bubble they were in broke when another knock sounded. Thorne gently pushed Jeannie away as if she were the one who'd initiated the embrace.

"Answer the door," he ordered, picking up the magazine once more and dismissing her as a king would a servant.

Jeannie grew puzzled at Thorne's indifference.

Why is he so cold?

She couldn't think of the reason now. A guest was waiting. Throwing back her shoulders, she went to open the door.