Page 21 of Kiss or Dare

And damn but his cock tightened. Her pink lips pressed into a delicious bow, the steam heating her cheeks, her long dark lashes settled against rose-touched ivory skin. When she opened her eyes, they’d be the same shade as the coffee if cream were added. His gut tightened, too. Then his chest. He turned to his notebook for distraction, flipping through the pages as she cooled the drink. He heard the slurp and looked up. Her lips were closed, but her tongue ran along the inside of her mouth, between teeth and lips.

“Grounds,” he said.

She nodded, still ferreting out the small beasts.

“I’m trying to find out a way to be rid of them.”

“The grounds?”

He pointed to a sketch in the notebook. “Coffee is usually prepared by boiling grounds with water, and while it creates an obviously delicious drinking experience, it leaves much to be said for a textural one.

“I see. You hope to improve this.”

“Yes. I need to heat the grounds outside of the water. Your father suggested steam, but my understanding of how to harness it is not what it should be.”

She laughed. “How can it be? You’ve been learning the trade for only a few months. Papa has been at it most of his life.”

“Yet he refuses to help me.”

“Let me guess, he’d rather prick the nails from the back of your hand one by one than help because a man isn’t made by someone else’s hand.”

Devon rubbed the back of his hand. “It was the tendons he said he’d rip out but yes. You’ve heard that one, too.”

“I’ve heard them all.” She picked up his sketchbook and studied it, bringing it close enough to her face to hide her features. “Clever,” she said from behind the book. “Very.” She plopped it back down on the table.

“I don’t suppose you can help me, Miss Clarke.” He needed a solution in two months’ time, and he’d take even the vixen’s help.

“I have too much respect for your tendons, Lord Devon.”

“Wench.”

“I can recommend a few books you might find interesting.”

“Horrid novels or—”

“Scientific tomes.Tsk. Lord Devon, you do not have much faith in me. Do you wish the titles of these books, or will you insult me more?”

He bowed. “I apologize. Titles, please.”

“Lavoisier’sElements of Chemistryand Dalton’sNew System of Chemical Philosophy.”

His pencil hovered above the blank notebook page where he’d meant to write down the titles. “You’ve read them?” They sounded… sleep-inducing.

“I have. I read lots of things.”

He grunted. “A bluestocking.Tsk. Tsk. What if thetonfound out their favorite beauty has a brain to match her father’s?”

“Then I’d wear the moniker happily. Read the titles, if you will, or do not. I do not care.” She strode for the door. She stopped in its frame and spoke without turning around, “I have found that who you really are does not matter with your lot.”

“My lot?”

She still did not turn around. “What is truly important is confidence, acting as if no one else’s opinion matters.” She finally turned around, peered at him over her shoulder and through golden curls. “Thankfully, not caring what others think is the very soul of who my father is.”

“Does it equally describe who you are?”

“I can tell you this. I care not a whit whatyouthink of me.” She winked and left him utterly defeated and alone.

He wanted to hate her.