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Excerpt

“What was it like growing up in New York for you?” I ask Trina as I refill her wine before gesturing for her to relax back against the couch we’re both sitting on. Her short jersey dress rides higher on her thighs when she does, causing my pulse to hammer in my veins.

The words that spill from her mouth make my heart ache. “Lonely. I lived among so many people here, yet everywhere I turned, I was so alone. It made it hard to feel after a while, so I decided to escape.”

“You didn’t go far.”

“No. I was fortunate there was an excellent baking school not terribly far from here, distance-wise. I could hop on a train or two to be here in the event of an emergency, but for all intents and purposes, I was gone when I left the first time.”

“You were happy.” It isn’t a question, but an observation.

“I was until I wasn’t. Isn’t that the way with most things?” Her answer should satisfy me, but I want to know more.

I’m beginning to realize I want to know everything.

“Will you tell me?” I reach out and brush my fingers lightly over hers holding the glass. My fingers touch the coolness before encountering her warm skin. A shiver runs through us both.

And it hits me—I’m not just asking to know more about her, I’m asking for her trust because we can’t move forward without it.

She doesn’t say anything for a few moments, staring at the straw-colored liquid glowing in the low light. But when she does, it puts another layer on top of the complex woman in front of me. “I went to a fairly prestigious pastry school. Since I essentially raised myself, I learned quickly how to make a meal from next to nothing. The idea of crafting something from unlimited resources intrigued me.”

“Why baking and not cooking?” I ask. I’d asked her the question during an interview session, and she said she wasn’t ready. Now, I feel like before we move on, I need to know the answer.

“Because I never had dessert growing up. Never had a birthday cake.” Her reply tears a wound in my soul when I imagine a girl who looks like Annie being disappointed when, year after year, something that should be celebrated was ignored. “Eating is fundamental for survival, but dessert is decadence. At that time, I was gluttonous about feeding that part of my soul.”

“And now? Now, what are you hungry for?” I’m holding my breath as I wait for her answer.

“Who are you asking, Jonas? The chef or me?” Her eyes are directly on mine as she lifts her glass to her lips.

I can see the traces of the liquid clinging to her lips. I wish it was my mouth that had made them that way. Slowly, her tongue snakes out to capture the drop before it runs down her chin. I’m fighting the raging hard-on threatening to split the seam of my slacks. “Do you see me as the food critic or the man?”

I wait with bated breath for her answer. Her lids lower, causing a stark contrast between the lightness of her eyes and the lush line of lashes. “I see you, Jonas. Just you. And every time I do, you make me feel something inside I don’t quite know how to explain.”

My lips curve. “Well, that’s another thing we have in common besides this ridiculous attraction.”

“What’s that?” Her voice is breathless as I slide forward and gently pluck the wineglass from her fingers before leaning over to place both of our glasses onto the coffee table.

“From the moment you laid into me, I’ve wanted nothing more than to do this,” I inform her as I gather her into my arms. I lower my lips to hers and press a soft kiss against them before drawing back.

“Hmm. That’s all?” Her words provoke me now in a different way than they did that first day.

All the signs have pointed to Trina wanting to be with me, but I won’t be the guy who presumes. I frame her face with my hands. “I want you. I want nothing more than to peel this excuse of a dress off your body and feast on what’s underneath, but I need to know that’s what you want too.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then I need to move away—right now—before I find out exactly how edible you are,” I tell her bluntly.

When nothing but a hissing sound escapes her lips, I lean forward and touch my lips to hers. “I’ll just get us some more wi—”

The word isn’t out of my mouth before Trina’s tackles me backward against the couch, her mouth voraciously devouring mine.

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About the Author

Tracey Jerald knew she was meant to be a writer when she would re-write the ending of books in her head on her bike when she was a young girl growing up in southern Connecticut. It wasn’t long before she was typing alternate endings and extended epilogues “just for fun”.

After college in Florida, where she obtained a degree in Criminal Justice swearing she saw things she’ll never quite believe and never quite forget, Tracey traded the world of law and order for IT.

Her work for a world-wide internet startup transferred her to Northern Virginia where she met her husband in what many call their own happily ever after. They have one son.

When she’s not busy with her family or writing, Tracey can be found in her home in north Florida drinking coffee, reading, training for a runDisney event, or feeding her addiction to HGTV.

Connect with Tracey

Website: https://www.traceyjerald.com

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