LITMIR.BIZ

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curve of Megan’s backside, showcased in a pair of clingy yoga pants as she—oh, hell—checked what looked like a lasagna in the oven...but smelled, wow, more than a shade off.

      Not. Again.

      “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, announcing his presence a second before sliding his hands over the sweet curve of her hips. He needed a reminder as to why he was going to choke down the coming atrocity. An incentive of sorts.

      With his hands coasting over her hips and waist, she swung the steel door closed and started to turn as he said, “How about my welcome-home— Gah!”

      Connor’s head jerked back as he was hit with the one-two punch of Megan’s smiling face covered in some kind of bottom-of-the-vegetable-drawer-looking half-dry paste...and the accompanying rotting stink of it.

      “Your kiss?” She laughed, patting him gently on the chest and then casting him a mischievous wink as she stepped out of his hold. “Sorry to surprise you with the swamp-thing mask, but I do one weekly,” she offered with a little shrug.

      “Weekly.” God, he couldn’t even imagine coming face-to-face with this odor on a regular basis. Daring a closer look, he leaned in and ran his finger along one tacky cheek. “What’s it do?”

      Megan shrugged. “Um...well, it tightens your pores. And removes impurities. Keeps the skin looking smoother. Younger. More healthy.”

      Hmm. Half the time he was with her she wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she was beautiful. Her skin flawless with those pale freckles sprinkled around it. Maybe it was the mask?

      “Interesting.” Then waving his hand in front of his face, he asked, “So what other beauty secrets should I be looking forward to?”

      He’d never asked any of the other women he’d dated about their mysterious feminine rituals, but then, he’d never been curious before. And of course, he’d never been this up close and personal to one either.

      Arms crossed, she gave him a scrutinizing look. After a beat, “Waxing.”

      “Really.” His gaze drifted down the line of her body, curiosity on the rise about every potentially smooth, bare strip of skin.

      This time it was Megan circling a hand round her face, her all-challenge smile gone full tilt. “Really.”

      Confusion first. Then understanding. His chin snapped back. “Really?”

      Megan arched a delicate brow at him. “Why, it doesn’t bother you, does it?”

      He might have mistaken her look as playful—if not for the glint of steel in her eyes.

      His good humor and amused intrigue shut down.

      Another test.

      Three weeks and he hadn’t proven a damn thing to her. Hadn’t made the slightest headway in easing her concerns. And it was starting to chafe. Pull and rub against the seams of who he was—to the point where something had to give.

      But not him.

      “I know what you’re doing, Megan.”

      She stared at him a beat. Bracing.

      Good idea. She was going to need it, because he had a point to make.

      He started toward her, letting his mind peel away the layers of defense she’d erected. The mask, the tests, until the only thing he saw was the woman who’d stared up at him that first night. “I know what I want, Megan.”

      She was backed against the counter, the breath rushing past her lips in a way that called to his most primitive self.

      “And if you think the threat of some smelly mask or not-quite-so-sexy waxing ritual is going to keep me from getting it...” He stroked the shell of her ear, tucked a few wayward strands behind as he took the caress down the line of her neck.

      He leaned farther into her space and let the edge back into his voice. “...you’ve got another think coming.”

      Wide eyes within a flaking mask of putrid green held with his.

      Ready not only to meet her challenge, but raise hers as well—Connor closed in, breathing solely through his mouth. “I’ll have my kiss now.”

      * * *

      Okay, that hadn’t gone the way she’d intended it. Not by a long shot.

      Breathless and trembling with unfulfilled desire, T-shirt bunched around one elbow, Megan stared down at herself draped across the polished granite of the center island in utter disbelief as Connor coolly strode out of the kitchen. Whistling to himself!

      As though he’d claimed some victory instead of crawling off this countertop himself, covered in disgusting flecks of algae mask, his tailor-made shirt missing half its buttons and the tent in his suit pants threatening irreparable damage to his fly.

      She’d resisted him!

      Granted, it had taken her a while to come to her senses. And possibly only then because in the midst of that tempest of passion, she’d opened her eyes to catch her green-faced reflection in the gleaming metal of a countertop bowl. But still, after a few breathless attempts, she’d managed his name. And a few minutes later, she’d even unhooked her ankles from the small of his back and said no.

      Like she meant it. Sort of.

      Connor had delivered one last, soul-searing kiss and then...dismounted.

      Whistling.

      Pfft.

      So this revolting mask—that even she could barely stand but used religiously because, despite the stink, nothing worked like it—wasn’t enough to throw Connor off his game. In truth, she hadn’t really expected it to be.

      The man she’d married was no lightweight. He was goal driven. Unafraid of confrontation, hard work or the pungent scent of swamp.

      Megan swallowed hard.

      She wanted him. But every time she found herself confronted with his unflappable, easy confidence—his smooth sell and I-don’t-back-down stare—she couldn’t stop the thoughts slithering through her mind.

      He held too much sway, made all the right promises and left her feeling more vulnerable than she ever had before. Connor wouldn’t acknowledge anything out of line with his goal. He wouldn’t respond in any believable way. Which terrified her. Because by refusing to acknowledge who she really was, and curbing his every response, he was actually preventing her from seeing the real him, as well.

      But she couldn’t make herself walk away. Because for every too-easily-dismissed fault, there were a hundred instances of sincerity. Moments too pure, too intense, to be anything but genuine.

      God, she had to be careful.

      * * *

      Megan couldn’t believe it had come to this.

      She knew which waffles Connor liked. Not only did she know which waffles he liked—she cared about which waffles he liked. And even worse—she’d spent the past ten minutes standing in the open door of the frozen-breakfast section determined to find waffles even better. So she could be the one to offer the best damn toaster waffle her husband had ever wrapped his tongue around.

      Oh, this was bad. Very bad.

      And totally embarrassing, now that she stopped to think about it. They were waffles, for crying out loud.

      Feeling suddenly conspicuous, she glanced down the aisle half expecting to find a crowd of snickering onlookers taking bets on which brand she’d opt for, only, instead her focus caught on a head of short salt-and-pepper curls topping a face she hadn’t seen in the two decades that had weathered it.

      Her breath leaked out of her in a thin, chilled wisp. “Pete.”

      She blinked, stepping forward before she’d even thought to curb the impulse. It couldn’t be him. In all the years, it was never actually him. But this time...she could swear

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