Page 115 of On Edge

Suddenly, I’m flustered, and I bumble my words. “I’m completely fine. I-I think with the wedding and everything happening, there’s so much to plan, and all the dresses arriving, and I don’t know what to wear…”

Now I’m just making stuff up, and it’s coming out like verbal diarrhoea. And Troy’s staring at me, taking in what I’m saying, nodding, listening to everything. And as I hear myself, I know I sound completely insane.

But he doesn’t say that.

There’s a twitch at the corner of his lips, though, like he’s trying to hold down a smile.

And that makes me angry. He does not get to laugh at me. Not when he’s leaving without a word for two days just before a wedding is about to kick off.

Our wedding, to be exact.

Because I have to kill him before everyone gets here.

“Come here.”

Just like that, my body obeys. I don’t even get to have a choice in the matter because I shuffle towards him, willingly. He seizes me and pulls me to him.

And then I forget to be mad.

“You have flour on your cheek.” He dusts away something I can’t see on my face. His fingers are rough against my skin. I can smell his cologne, all fresh and woodsy, making my stomach tighten and my toes curl despite my better judgment. All I want to do is throw myself into his arms, but I can’t.

I cannot do that.

We’re not supposed to be touching.

But you need to get the key and check for scars, little Sis.

“I was baking,” I say, sounding a little breathless and hating myself for it.

“Yes, I can see that.”

He lifts my chin and then kisses me. It’s soft and slow, delving deep into my mouth, his tongue tasting every part of me. And I kind of completely dissolve in his arms, more so when he lifts me onto the counter.

In the back of my mind, I can hear Kathy saying,That’s not hygienic, but I don’t care. Not anymore, not when he pushes me onto the floury surface and carries on kissing my neck, making my heart flutter and tiny little moans come out of my mouth.

I have no words when he takes my hand and sucks one of my fingers, eating the icing there.

“Sweet,” he says, licking his lips. “You taste sweet. Are you baking my favorite?”

“You don’t bake pancakes.”

He chuckles, and it’s a low rumble in my ear. “Sticky tarts are also my favorite.”

I give a quick nod. Because what else is a girl to do when she’s lying spread-eagled on a kitchen counter, with the man of her dreams and nightmares standing between her legs…

Devouring icing off her skin?

25

TROY

She’s a mess.

Flour in her hair, her lips smudged with something sweet. Icing all over her hands. She smells like cinnamon and vanilla, wild lavender and something else that’s just her.

The kitchen is freezing as always, but she’s made her own warmth; the oven’s heat, the steam rising from the cakes on the cooling racks, her presence. It’s the only warm corner in this godforsaken house, and I’m drawn to it. She’s caught me well and truly. Because right now, I should be working. I should be in my office closing this deal. I should not be taking advantage of her on the kitchen table.

Seeing her laid out amidst the chaos has destroyed everything I wanted to do and say.