Kyle dips his head. He’s trying not to laugh.

“What?” I ask, and a touch of apprehension stirs.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . your mouth, it’s stained red.”

“No it’s not.” I press my lips together.

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah. Like, all over.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I silently curse, tossing the stick into the pack. Here I am, trying to seduce him, and now I look like a four-year-old who got into her mother’s lipstick. “Yeah, well, your tongue is green.” I furiously rub my palm against my lips, trying in vain to wipe the color off.

“Stop! Stop . . .” He’s still laughing as he grabs hold of my hand and pulls it away, lacing my fingers within his. His eyes are twinkling with mischief as they settle on my mouth. “Actually, I like the red on you. Like, really like it.” He leans in a touch but then hesitates.

I can’t take it anymore.

I close the distance and press my mouth against his. Only for a second, long enough to feel the softness of his lips and the cold metal of his lip ring, and to taste the sour apple candy powder.

And then I remember.

I break free with a gasp, my heart rate spiking. “Oh my God! I forgot! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking! What do we do?”

He frowns with confusion. “About what?”

“Your allergy!” How far is the walk to the golf cart? Can we make it in time?

“Oh. That.” He grins. “Yeah. I lied about that.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “I hate the cherry flavor.”

Relief bowls over me, even as I smack his chest. “Kyle! You don’t joke about stuff like that!”

“I’m definitely regretting it now.” His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a moment before he finally leans in.

The last kiss was fast and fleeting, driven by my impulsiveness. This one, though, is all Kyle. It’s slow and intentional, his lips brushing over mine once, twice . . . before settling against them in a playful dance of soft presses and the occasional graze of his tongue. Only his tip, though, and only against my lips, moving fast enough that I barely catch it with my own. Each time that I do, I sense Kyle smiling.

Trevor never kissed me like this. He always dove right in—with passionate lips and busy hands. I thought he was a good kisser. I thought that was what I liked.

But this . . .

This is more like a game. Kyle is teasing me.

And I am devouring every second of it.

My breathing turns shallow as I match his tempo, my fists balled in my lap, heat beginning to pulse through my limbs and into my core. My fingers reach for his lap, but I hold them back, curious to see what he does next.

But he just keeps going with this torturous, slow pace for minutes that feel like hours, until he finally breaks free.

“Was the cherry that bad?” I whisper, my head swimming in a heady fog.

His golden eyes burn with heat as he smiles at me. “Actually, I think you’ve made me a huge fan of all things cherry.” With a deep—shaky, I note—exhale, he eases himself off the rock and holds out his hand. “Come on. Don’t want to get you into trouble on your first day.”

Chapter 7

NOW

“How was it?” Christa settles onto the bar stool beside me, a stack of paperwork within her grasp.

“Delectable, as usual.” I’ve never had a bad meal at Christa’s restaurant, and I’ve eaten here enough times that odds say I should have had at least one overcooked steak or crusty pasta. I shove aside my dirty dishes, the small pool of red meat juices unappealing now that my stomach is stretching the seams of my dress. “You done for the night?”

“Just need to finalize this kitchen order, if I can translate Ian’s notes.” She shakes her head as her finger drags along the margin. “The man is forty-eight years old. It’s time he learned how to spell. I mean, seriously . . . green peepers? Baycan?”

I lean over to read off the supply list that the kitchen manager pulled together. “Whatever you do, don’t forget to order the chivs and sore kreem. Can’t have the baked potato without the chivs and sore kreem.”

She sighs, accepting the club soda that Sam the bartender swoops in to set in front of her. “I gave two of my managers the weekend off and now I have no bar manager, so I’m basically chained to this place. I may as well sleep here.” She says that like it’s a punishment, but I know Christa—bossing people around is the fuel to her engine.

“I guess I have the condo to myself, then.” Ashley took the five o’clock train to her parents’, where she’ll be staying until Sunday.

“Can you feed Elton his dinner tomorrow?”

“If he’s nice to me.” I sniff.

“Can you feed him anyway?”

“Fine.”

“He won’t bother you.”

“No, you’re right. He’ll pretend I don’t exist.” That cat has mastered the art of snubbing in a way few humans can match.

“So? What happened today to make you show up here looking like your dog got hit by a car?”

I slide my empty wineglass forward and Sam fills it wordlessly, with an extra heavy hand. I guess my dour face says I need it. I take a greedy gulp, feeding the warm buzz that’s finally beginning to temper my mood. “Besides my dad telling me that I need to earn Tripp the Prick’s respect?”

Her face twists with disgust. “The guy’s a misogynist. By definition, he’s incapable of respecting a woman. How are you supposed to do that?”

“Well, probably not by telling him to shove his golf stick up his ass,” I mutter. The dick called at twelve fifteen—as predicted—and was momentarily speechless when I interrupted my lunch meeting at The Port Room to answer the call.

It started out well enough. He declared confidently that all necessary permit approvals for the Marquee would be in our hands by Monday, latest. I swallowed my pride and commended him for a job well done, and then requested that he send me the revised timelines and budgets by Monday, noon. That’s when he had the nerve to flat-out refuse to request that amount of work of his team on a Friday afternoon, especially when the work would no doubt bleed into the summer weekend. Oddly enough, for a man who doesn’t care to win my approval, he certainly cares about theirs.