Page 2 of Sterling Heat

“It’s going to be loose on you, but it will be dry. I’ll step out while you change, but if you hand me your things, I’ll toss them in the dryer.”

I weakly smile. “It’s dry clean only.” A tumble in a dryer would ruin the material of my dress. If it isn’t already destroyed.

His eyes roam my soaked outfit, like a physical caress. From the collar of my dress, trailing right down to the saturated hem plastered to my thighs, those warm eyes peruse every inch of me. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, his wide chest puffing out with the movement, before pausing a second. Then he turns his head to the side. Without a word, he slips around me and softly closes the door.

Once he leaves, I glance down at my dress, suctioned to every curve and dip of my figure. My nipples are protruding peaks giving away how cold I am. Or is it something else? My body reacting to the way he was looking at me. The heat in his gaze. Warmth fills my cheeks once again. I shiver at the possibility he might have liked what he saw.

Shaking my head, I dismiss crazy thoughts. He wasn’t looking at me in any way other than he might stare at a drowned rat. With shaky fingers and chilled limbs, I work to remove my clothing. Deciding my bra and underwear will only cause discomfort under the dryness of a fresh shirt, I remove them as well. With the oversized T-shirt on, I run my hand over my backside, confirming the length covers my butt. Every attempt to bend forward forces me to catch my breath and wince at the pain in my tailbone.

Glancing around the office, it’s an accountant’s nightmare. Papers stacked like lopsided pancakes on the floor. A box brimming with receipts rests on a file cabinet. The desktop is covered in haphazard piles. But the thing that attracts my gaze the most is a large zipper sweatshirt draped over the back of the desk chair. Taking the liberty, I swipe up the soft cotton and wrap myself in another layer for warmth. The collar smells like vanilla and motor oil, which is a strange yet surprisingly refreshing combination. I smile to myself as I inhale what I assume is the scent of the curmudgeon baker himself.

A soft knock comes to the door, but it opens before I answer. “I figured you might want these. I don’t have shoes that would fit you.” That crook of his lips happens again. He’s making a joke. He’s also holding out a pair of socks when he glances at my feet. His feet must be four sizes bigger than mine. “Or you can keep hobbling on one foot.”

When he looks up, the flame in his eyes flares. His gaze lowers from my face to the sweatshirt dangling too long on my arms and the T-shirt that hits just above my knees.

“Thank you.” My voice is still unsteady but I’m not certain it’s the cold making my throat rumble. I shrug and smooth my fingers down one side of the open zipper. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head, and I take the socks from him, wincing as I bend forward to slip them on.

“Are you hurt?”

“Besides my pride?” I joke then reality hits me. Am I hurt? Did I do any internal damage? Is everything still good in there? “My backside is killing me.”

At the mention of my ass, he chokes, and I glance up to find him swiping his thick fingers around his mouth, stroking at the bristly hairs on his chin. He looks more like a biker than a baker but he’s the man who filled my cake order. He has swapped his wet clothes for a dry pair of jeans and a light gray Henley shirt. His close-cropped hair is damp. A towel hangs over his shoulder.

“Are you the Curmudgeon baker?” I ask, righting myself and wincing again as pain shoots up my spine.

“A joke from my family,” he mocks.

“But are you the owner of Curmudgeon Bakery?” I tip my head. He’s solid brawn, and I can’t imagine his hefty fingers delicately decorating baby-Bundt cakes, but the judgement is unfair.

“Yeah.” His gaze lowers to the floor and the corner of his mouth tips up again. Pride fills his voice while his cheeks pinken the slightest bit.

“What? Only answer one word at a time?” I tease.

His head pops up and those dark eyes dance with mischief. He stares at my saturated hair. “I brought you this.” Dragging a towel off his shoulder, he hands it to me and arches a brow. “And that was four words.”

With a cheeky smile, I mutter, “Thanks,” and rub the material over my face, inhaling a stronger blend of vanilla mixed with laundry detergent. My makeup must be a frightful mess.

He tilts his head toward the storefront, “How about some coffee?”

With a nod, I finger comb my long hair as best I can. Following him into the bakery while wearing his socks, I twist my hair around itself, forming a messy bun. He points to a long wooden bench, and gingerly I sit, wincing before trying to balance on one cheek.

The sexy baker rounds the display counter, and I take the opportunity to glance at his well-sculpted backside. Nice.

He pours two mugs of coffee, and then comes to the table, setting down each steaming container. “I’ll be right back.”

Disappearing through a door marked Private, he quickly returns and holds out a bed pillow. “For your ass.”

I laugh as he takes a seat across from me in a chair. “I’m Enya, by the way. Enya Calloway.”

“Nice to meet you, Enya Calloway.” He lifts his mug, watching me over the rim. In typical conversation this is where he should tell me his name, but he doesn’t offer, and I don’t ask.

There’s something very unconventional about this man.

As silence grows, I glance around the bakery. Display cases line one side while the long, wooden, booth bench where I sit, and a scattering of tables line the opposite wall. The floor is giant black and white squares while subway tiles decorate the wall giving the place an old-world-bakery atmosphere. Or maybe it’s New Age as the stark white, clean lines have made a resurgence. With the hum of the air conditioner no longer buzzing, music can be heard.

“Imagine” by John Lennon fills the space.