A man who apparently was avoiding me. I hadn’t seen him in two days. Once, I saw the back of him as he turned a corner, his stride—that freaking swagger that made me think of sex and sin—determined, as though he didn’t want to be caught loitering.

It was my fault for pushing, flirting when he was obviously resisting. Then again, he was the one who’d taken it so far I still shivered when I thought about him drawing closer, his gaze on my mouth like he wanted to devour it. Devour me.

“Ugh.” I flopped back on my sofa. “Stop thinking about him.”

Perhaps I should leave. Find another place to hide out.

My insides twisted. I didn’t want to leave.

Lunch arrived, breaking into my brooding thoughts. Yet another basket—this time brought around by a woman named Janet, who told me she was part of the house staff.

Was it worrisome that I was already salivating like Pavlov’s dog? Probably. But it didn’t stop the giddy anticipation welling up within me. I’d become inordinately excitable over daily meals.

The basket yielded a salad of baby greens and a canister of soup. An accompanying card written in a sharply slanting scrawl informed me that it was called avgolemono: a greek chicken-and-lemon soup. I had a choice of chilled chardonnay or iced tea to go with it.

And then I saw the dessert box. Delicious food aside, this was what made my day. These little treats that felt like they were made solely for me. Oh, I realized that everyone got the same desserts. But I let myself believe, if only for a little while, that they were for me alone.

Anticipation bubbled through my veins as I pulled the gold ribbon free. Inside was a caramel-colored tart about the size of my hand. Dark-golden custard had been piped in petal-thick ribbons to look like a flower. Just off to the side, as if touching down for a taste, was a tiny sugar honeybee.

My breath caught and held as my entire focus narrowed down to that bee. Forgoing a fork, I lifted the tart with my bare hands and took a large almost angry bite. And realized a few things. It wasn’t a tart; it was a pie. And it wasn’t caramel. It was honey.

Smooth floral notes of delicately sweet honey imbued the silky custard. Decadent but light, sweet yet rich. A honey pie, lovingly made. The tiny sugar bee, still perched on the edge of the flaky crust, mocked me.

That little bee nibbling on her honey pie.

A pulse of sheer heat lit up my sex, licked down my thighs, tweaked my nipples. I shoved another messy bite into my mouth, relishing the taste, wanting . . . him.

This was his work, made with his hands, his skill, his mind. My grumpy man with the ability to create sweetness in the most unexpected of ways.

Somehow, at the back of my mind, I’d known from the start. From the way he’d all but ordered me to try his brest. How he’d watched me eat it with that strange intent look upon his face. Pride. That was what it was. He was proud of his work.

I ate up my honey pie without pause, devouring it until it was nothing more than a sticky paste on my fingers, buttery crumbs on my lips. Moaning, I licked my skin clean like a cat might. I swore I felt claws prickling, aching to come out.

Because he had known, and I hadn’t. Was it a joke to him? What had he said? The chef was temperamental. Oh, how he must have laughed on the inside at that.

With a growl, I washed my hands and headed for the door, half of me more turned on than I’d ever been in my life, the other half ready to tear into the most irritating man I’d ever met.

It took him over an hour to return, carrying in bags of groceries. I sat in the far corner of the big kitchen, comfortably perched on the counter and eating another honey pie—this one sadly without a cute bee. Apparently, that had been just for me.

He didn’t notice me, which was what I’d intended, given that I knew the weasel would only pretend he was dropping the stuff off for the “chef” of the house if he saw me now.

God, but he looked good. Angry as I was, my eyes drank up the sight of him. Inky hair tousled and windblown, lush lips in that sullen pout. Dusky olive-toned skin smooth and dark against the white T-shirt he wore. The short sleeves of the shirt strained against his biceps, which bunched as he set down the heavy bags.

No one would ever doubt the man was an athlete; he moved with the assurance of someone who used his body like a machine—efficient, graceful, strong.

He turned to root through the refrigerator, and the tight globes of his spectacular bubble butt strained against worn jeans. Silently, he set a bottle of cream down, then reached up to the hanging pot rack for a saucier, exposing a sliver of toned abs as he did.

Sweet mercy, but I might truly orgasm watching this man work his kitchen. I didn’t even know it was my kink. Maybe Lucian made it so. When he proceeded to separate an egg with an efficient snap of his wrist, I knew it was him. He was my kink. Damn it all.

“You do that so well.” My voice cracked through the silence, and he practically jumped out of his skin, those frost eyes going wide and panicked. “Must have taken you years to learn your craft.”

For a second, neither of us spoke. With words. Our eyes held an entire conversation.

Oh, I am so onto you, buddy.

Apparently so.

You should have told me.

Apparently so.

Nothing else to say?

Apparently not.

You are magnificent.

That one slipped out.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. And those panicked eyes went hot, focused.

“It was the honey pie, wasn’t it?” His voice was a husky rasp in the quiet of the kitchen.

I pushed aside the remnants of the pie I’d been eating and licked my fingertips, enjoying the way he immediately zeroed in on that. A grunt rumbling from deep within his chest set off flickers of lust in mine. I ignored them.

“A bit too literal a choice.” I hopped down. “But delicious.”

Glaring, I made my way to the island. His expression grew wary, those broad shoulders stiffening, as though bracing for a fight. I grinned, wanting him off kilter. Lord knew he’d been doing the same to me for days.

“Hockey player”—I started counting off on my fingers—“carpenter, temperamental chef, baker, pastry maker . . .” I stopped before him, overwhelmed all over again by the sheer physicality of him. When I stood near Lucian Osmond, I wanted. “Maybe I should be calling you Renaissance man. Tell me, Brick, do you paint too?”

He rested a big long-fingered hand on the marble countertop. The muscles along his arm shifted as he leaned in a touch. “Yes, but only on pâtisseries.”