Page 22 of The Biker and the Baker

Before I can ask, he tells me, “Mira said you were hiding out and that you’d only answer the door if you thought it was her.”

“Oh.” I step aside and wave him in.

He smells like dough and fresh cookies as he passes me. HowIusually smell, which means he’d been in the kitchen at the pastry for a while.

I close the door. “Is everything okay at Cookie’s?”

“Yeah. There’s always some shit with that delivery company. Think I’m gonna switch to the competitor,” he answers, half-distracted as he takes in my apartment. “Busta Rhymes, huh?”

“It’s Mira’s way of teasing me.”Freaking Mira.“When I was younger, I wanted to be a rapper, but I could only rap to the beat ofPut Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See.Any other rhythm and I’d freeze up. So she started calling me Bust A Rapper.”

“Rap something for me,” he demands.

“Nope, nope.” I hold my hands up, laughing. “Those days are o-v-e-r.”

“Your apartment looks like a dollhouse and a greenhouse at the same time.”

I shrug. “What can I say, I like plants.”

“And really, really bright colors,” he states as he picks up one of my multicolor crane bird figurines and examines it. “And clutter.”

Ass. “Okay, time for you to take your little devil twins and go.”

He arches a brow at me. “They gave you trouble?”

On a snort, I pad to the dining table, pick up Thor’s hammer, and wave it at him. “They did exactly what they said they would do.”

“What do you mean?”

“One punched Spiderman in the nutsack and rendered him useless for the rest of the party. And the other stole Thor’s hammer when he wasn’t looking. Thor chased him around until he gave up and let him have it.”

His lips twitch.

“It’s not funny. They’re hellions.”

“Sorry.” He tries to appear sober and contrite but fails miserably. “I shouldn’t have left them.”

I wave him off. “Eh, it’s fine. They had fun. Wore themselves out.”

He walks over to the couch where the two rude-as-hell boys are fast asleep. “I can see that.” He tries to wake them but is unsuccessful. Those rugrats areout. So, because his large muscles, broad chest, and wide shoulders can afford it, he lifts them both to his chest with ease, one twin in each arm. “Gonna put them in the car.”

Snatching up their party bags, I follow him out rather than wait for him to return, as I donotwant to be in my apartment alone with him. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself with that man already.

After loading the boys in the car, he turns and gives me an amused smirk, watching me hold out the party-bags for him to take. An obvious “hurry up and leave” gesture.

“Where’smytake-home treat?” he asks, not taking the proffered bags from me.

“They’re for thekids.”

A one-shoulder shrug. “Not fair. I love junk and sweets just as much as the next kid.”

“Well, I guess I owe you.”

Then, we just stand there. Him gazing down at me with twinkling, mischievous eyes. Me looking up at him with an amalgamation of confusing emotions.

He breaks first with, “Thanks for helping me out today.”

“I guess you owe me, too.” Then I narrow my eyes. “By the way, this doesn’t change anything. I still despise you.”