Page 30 of The Baby Dragon Bakery (The Baby Dragon #2)

I t was towards the end of the game now, and Lavinia had sat down on the grass with Calahan, both of them huddled together as the sun set over the field, bringing a chill into the evening. They hadn’t opened the Baby Dragon Bakery box Calahan had brought, and finally Lavinia reached for it.

“What did you bring?” she asked, opening the box to reveal two cupcakes with swirls of frosting on top. They smelled divine. She pulled a cupcake out of the box; it was dark orange and spongy.

“I was told they are pumpkin spice vanilla chai latte cupcakes,” Calahan replied, really working to remember that whole name. She snorted.

“Why is that so hyper-specific?” she asked, pulling the wrapper off the cupcake.

“I have no idea,” Calahan replied. “But it sounded like something you’d like.”

“And you’re absolutely right, I love all of those things.” He bumped her shoulder with his. She took a bite, not caring about the frosting getting on her face. It was sweet and perfectly spiced, all the flavors mixing together effortlessly. “Ohmygod, soooo good.”

Calahan laughed. “I can tell,” he said, reaching over to swipe her nose. He held up a finger, where there was a huge dollop of frosting.

“Oops.” She reached forward to lick the frosting off, and he pulled his hand back. “Hey!” she cried, grabbing his wrist. “That’s my frosting!” Calahan laughed, letting her lick the frosting off his finger. “Mmm,” she said, as the sweet buttercream melted on her tongue.

“Insatiable,” Calahan said, shaking his head fondly. She laughed, letting go of his wrist.

She turned back to the field, still laughing—until she saw Theo. He had stopped in his tracks in the middle of the field and was watching her and Calahan.

The smile vanished from her lips at the expression on his face. Time seemed to slow around them, until all she heard was the loud roar of her blood rushing in her ears.

Then, Theo got rammed into.

Lavinia gasped, watching as he went flying into another player. Three bodies collided, crashing to the ground in a tangled heap. The referee sounded the whistle.

Lavinia shot to her feet. “Theo!”

She dropped her cupcake, running to the field. All three guys were groaning as they rose to their feet, and Lavinia reached between them for Theo.

He was in the worst shape, his face covered with blood that seemed to be coming from his nose and lip. He stood up, swearing profusely to himself.

“Oh my god, Theo,” she said, going to his side. Another guy in a black jersey jogged over—Lavinia recognized him. He was the team captain.

“Do you still want to play?” the captain asked Theo.

Theo shook his head, and the captain nodded, jogging off. Theo limped off the field, Lavinia walking with him, but he didn’t look at her. Once Theo was off the field, the referee sounded the whistle again, and the teams resumed their match.

When Lavinia returned to the sidelines with Theo, Calahan stood.

“Shit,” Calahan said, holding out a napkin for the blood. Theo didn’t take it, not looking at Calahan.

Lavinia turned to Calahan. “I’m going to take Theo home,” she said. Calahan paused, as if he wanted to say something, and she remembered too late that they were supposed to get dinner after the match.

Calahan swallowed. “Alright,” he said. He reached over and kissed her cheek. “See you later.”

Calahan left, but she hardly spared him a glance as she turned back to Theo. “Where’s your bag?” she asked. He was standing very still, but his hands were shaking, and there was a stormy expression on his bloodied face. “Theo,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, nor did he meet her gaze.

“Forget it,” he said, voice low. “I’m fine.”

He stalked away from her, and hurt slashed through her chest. Why was he being so cold? She watched as he went over to where his bag was with the rest of the other players’ things, then she chased after him.

“I said I’m fine,” Theo said, glancing over his shoulder but not quite looking at her.

“Theo, stop,” she said, pissed off. Her body was buzzing with restless energy. She was worried and didn’t have time for him to be fussy.

Finally, he looked at her. Something in his expression broke. She softened her voice. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

She was concerned—not because he was injured, because it didn’t look terrible enough that he needed to see a doctor, but because he was so quiet. He looked wounded in a way that wasn’t just physical.

The only time she had ever seen him get hurt and not crack any jokes was that first time, when he’d fallen from the apple tree in his backyard.

“Okay?” she asked. He nodded, then followed her to the parking lot, walking a few steps behind her. They got to her car, and he threw his bag in the back. As she got into the driver’s seat, he collapsed into the passenger seat with a sigh.

She started the car, pulling out of the parking lot.

“You didn’t have to leave your date,” he said, grumbling. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“Stop talking,” she snapped. “I mean it.”

She looked over to glare at him, and he sank into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Everything hurts, and now on top of that, you’re being mean to me.” He pouted.

“I’m not being mean to you, I’m just telling you to shut up,” she told him, driving toward his place. “Let me take care of you.”

He went quiet. He turned away from her, looking out the window, but before he did, she caught the way his eyes shone. She glanced over at him again and saw his throat moving.

Something terrible was happening, and she couldn’t understand what. Fear clawed through her.

When they got to his apartment, she parked in his spot. They got out of the car, and she walked over to his side, taking his arm and putting it around her shoulder. They walked into his apartment building, taking the elevator up to his floor.

They made it to his place, stopping in front of the door, and he groaned. “My key,” he said. “It’s in my bag.”

Which they had left in the car.

“It’s okay,” she said, rummaging around her purse. She found the spare key she always kept with her and let them into his apartment.

Inside, she switched on the lights, helping him over to the couch. He sank in, resting his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes. She brought him painkillers and water, which he took.

“Your face,” she said. His nose had stopped bleeding, but there was dried blood all over the lower half of his face, and his shirt was in no better condition, the black fabric darker.

With a groan, he stood and pulled his shirt off.

Lavinia paused, pulse quickening. Of course, she had seen him shirtless hundreds of times before, but now the sight made her entire body tense. She had felt the muscles of his chest through his flannel when they had kissed. Her mouth went dry at the memory, her hands twitching.

He walked past her and went to the bathroom. She heard water running, but he must have only splashed water on his face because when he came back and fell onto the couch again, his face was only marginally cleaner.

“You look like shit,” she said.

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Feel like it, too,” he replied, not opening his eyes.

She shook her head, then went to his kitchen, grabbing a bowl of warm water and some paper towels. She came back and sat on the coffee table in front of him, putting the bowl beside her leg. She dipped the paper towel in, wringing it before lifting it toward his face.

“Let me,” she said.

He opened his eyes, gaze shifting to her hand. He paused, throat moving as he swallowed. He nodded slightly, closing his eyes again. She reached over, but he was all the way back on the couch, and she couldn’t reach from here. She stood, drawing closer, and she felt heat emanating off his body.

Lavinia’s blood pounded as she leaned toward him, resting her left hand on his shoulder.

His skin was hot, searing into her palm.

Her hand looked so small along the curve of his shoulder, her thumb pressed against the hollow of his throat.

She wanted to trail a finger down the slope of his long throat, to trail it lower, over his chest, lower to—

Lavinia shook her head. She swore internally, forcing herself to focus.

Carefully, she wiped at the blood on his face.

She cleaned his face up slowly, getting a new paper towel when the previous one turned red.

The apartment was quiet, save for the sound of his ragged breathing—or was that hers? She couldn’t tell.

They had known each other for most of their lives, and she thought she knew everything there was to know about him, all his behavioral patterns and thoughts and feelings, how he would act and react—but this was uncharted territory.

That scared her, but it thrilled her, too, in a deranged way; the way lightning might be exhilarating, despite all the ways it could devastate.

After dipping a new paper towel into the water, she dabbed at the cut on his lip.

He hissed, grabbing her wrist. Her stomach flipped, heat burning through her body. He opened his eyes, and she saw that his pupils were blown wide, his eyes completely dark.

From this close, she could see herself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. Her chest ached. His thumb pressed hard into the pulse of her wrist, eliciting a delicious sort of pain, and she dropped the paper towel, gasping.

The sound was loud in his quiet apartment, and at the noise, his gaze flicked down to her open mouth, making desire hum through her. He brought his eyes back up to meet hers, their gazes locking.

They were both wholly unmoving, staring at each other. His hand was still gripping her wrist, her hand hovering just above his lips. If she curled her fingers, they would be in his mouth.

But then he let go, and her hand dropped. She moved back.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

“Of course,” she squeaked. Her face was burning from both desire and shame, and she turned, not wanting him to see either.