Page 50 of Filthy Rich Temptation

I yank open the freezer and stand in its chilling draught. It’s about as effective as the shower, but at least I’m not giving my houseguests a sodding eyeful. Literally.

‘Funny place to keep the syrup…’

Her sudden proximity radiates down my back – warm, inviting… her tease more flirtatious purr than platonic fun.

You wish!

‘Just grabbing ice for the juice.’

And my blue fucking balls!

She murmurs something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like, ‘Good luck with that.’

‘What’s that?’

I glance over but she’s already heading back to the table, ponytail swinging, her Lycra-sculpted cheeks giving me another injection that I unequivocally donotneed.

My freezer joins the saint on my shoulder, pinging at me in protest.

Beep beep beep?—

You beep off!

* * *

Sadie

I can’t eat.

I push pancakes and strawberries around my plate while Lottie and Theo dive in. Though I get the impression Theo’s eating more to keep his mouth busy than from hunger, hangover, or trying to please me.

Because I might misread his eyes, his face, even his words sometimes, but there’s no mistaking what his lounge pants revealed just before he fled.

And to the freezer of all places.

The memory sends the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive. There’s no way I can eat like this.

I pick up my coffee instead, eyeing him over the rim as I take a slow sip. He’s concentratingveryhard on his plate…

‘I see I’ve got two pancake monsters in the house,’ I murmur, daring him to look at me and getting a tiny thrill when he does.

‘They’re good,’ he says around a mouthful, eyes wide, voice endearingly muffled. ‘Realgood.’

He swallows – and then his eyes betray him, flicking to my chest in the swiftest glance known to man.

Hell, if I’d known gym gear would tip him over the edge, I’d have worn it sooner.

‘I’m glad you approve.’

I set my coffee down and lean over to help Lottie spear another piece of pancake – purely for her benefit, of course. And I feel his gaze. The way it lingers. The way his hands tighten around his cutlery.

‘I’m sorry about the Lycra at the table,’ I tease, arching a brow as the devil in me calls him out. ‘I was hoping to squeeze in a run on your treadmill before this one woke up, but she had other ideas, waking up at the crack of dawn…’

‘The treadmill – huh?’

Now who sounds like a chipmunk…? A smile tugs at my lips.

‘Still got the running bug then?’