Page 76 of Just One Little Bargain

“Sorry.” Both hands disappear into his pockets. “There was flour . . . I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay.”

It’s not. My lip is on fire. I want to grab his wrist and bring it back. To press his thumb against my mouth. To find out what his skin tastes like.

Milo retreats to the stove and busies himself examining burner knobs he doesn’t know how to operate.

I exhale through my nose and pivot toward the fridge. My right foot takes my full weight, and my knee buckles under the pain. I suck air through my teeth, and the sound is loud enough that Milo spins around.

“That’s it.” He’s across the kitchen in two steps. “You’re done standing.”

“I’ve got breakfast to finish.”

“And you can finish it from up here.”

He wraps both arms around my waist and I’m airborne. Cold granite meets the backs of my thighs.

“You can’t keep picking me up every time you disagree with my choices.”

“I can when your choices involve standing on an ankle that’s three different colors.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s worse than yesterday. You shouldn’t be on it at all.”

I scoot forward on the counter, ready to hop down. He plants both palms against my bare legs.

The warmth of his skin sears into mine. He steps between my legs to block my dismount, fingers curving around the outside of my thighs. I curl my own against the surface so hard the edge bites into my palms. Every thought about breakfast, bacon, and muffin batter vacates the premises.

“Stay.” His thumbs press fractionally firmer. “Sit here and tell me what to do. Boss me around. I’ll do whatever you say.”

That’s a terrible thing to say to me right now. I could get this out of my system right here on this counter and deal with the consequences over breakfast. And I think . . . fuck it. What exactly would happen if I hooked my fingers through his belt loops and pulled him forward? If I wrapped my legs around his waist and put my mouth to his throat? What is the worst that could realistically go wrong at this point?

His thumbs drag slowly along the inside of my thighs, and my hips follow the touch toward the edge of the counter.

Milo’s gaze dropping to the space I just closed between us like it’s a problem he’s trying very hard not to solve.

“Evie. I need you to stop moving.”

His grip tightens, eases, then tightens again. He leans in until our foreheads nearly touch, the last of the space between us disappearing. For one reckless moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me.

He lets go of me and steps back so fast he bumps into the opposite counter.

Milo clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Besides, keeping you comfortable is sort of in my professional interest. Hard to negotiate a bargain with someone who’s in too much pain to think straight.”

The arousal dies so fast it leaves me nauseous. There it is. The part I keep letting myself forget. He’s here because he needs something. And for one stupid moment, I let myself believe it was me.

“The eggs are in the door of the fridge.”

“Evie.”

“And I need a new ice pack.”

His shoulders draw in. Then he turns to the freezer without another word and wraps the ice pack in a clean towel. He crouches in front of me, cradling my heel in one hand while he settles the compress against the swollen joint with the other.

“Fruit’s on the cutting board.” He straightens and gestures to the strawberries and knife already arranged beside my hip. “You handle that. I’ll figure out the eggs and bacon.”

I unclench my fists and nod. “Start with the cast iron. Cold pan, medium-low heat, and don’t touch the strips until the edges start to crisp.”