Saving the Cake(5)

And then we were just sort of looking at each other, and I became aware that we were standing only a foot or so apart, both of us soaking wet. His white shirt had turned translucent and was molded to the curves of his pecs, darker patches marking the center line that ran down his chest and the ridges of his abs. His shoulders and biceps were standing out hard through the clinging fabric and, as I looked up, I saw the little droplets tumbling from his wet hair, spilling down over his cheekbones and past those dark gray eyes. Eyes that were gazing right back at me.

I’d always thought of gray as a cold color, not hot. But right then, his eyes almost seemed to burn.

I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t even glance down at myself, but I could feel how wet my top was. I knew it was sticking to every curve of my breasts and I was cold enough from the drenching that I suspected my nips were making an appearance through the sopping fabric as well.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” I said, pointing. My voice came out as a sort of squeak. “If you want to dry off your…chest.”

He nodded slowly. I retreated to my bedroom to recover. I suddenly breathless. It’s from the running, I told myself.

In the bedroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. Yes, the green top had plastered itself to my breasts and yes, they were suddenly capped by two visible peaks. I stripped it off and toweled myself off, then realized my bra was soaked through as well so I pulled that off, too. I started rooting through my drawers for a new one.

The cottage is very quiet. There’s virtually no traffic in the village and the thatched roof does a good job of absorbing even the noise of pounding rain. My bedroom door was ajar and, from down the hall, I could hear the sound of rustling cloth.

He was taking his shirt off.

Well, obviously he’s taking his shirt off. He’s toweling off, just like me.

He was standing there topless.

I straightened up from the drawer and stared at the door. There was a part of me—a tiny, stupid part—that wondered what would happen if I accidentally just sort of touched my bedroom door with my foot—yes, just like that—so that it swung open and then, when he came out of the bathroom and looked down the hall—

I suddenly came to my senses and slammed the door hard, my heart thumping. What the hell was that all about?! What, did I think he was going to see me topless and fall for me and sweep me into his arms? I flushed down to my roots. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There was a knock on the door. I spun around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes?” I squeaked.

“Are you okay?” Without his looks to distract me, I realized how sexy his voice was. Oh yes. Great time to realize that. “I heard a…slam.”


“Fine! A draft must have caught it.” I searched around for something to wear. The door wasn’t locked. What if he just opened it and saw me? I didn’t want that!

Unless I did.

Don’t start that again!

I grabbed the first bra I could find and pulled a big, baggy angora sweater over the top—nice and shapely and unsexy, to stop me getting any more ideas.

I took a deep breath, regaining control. And then opened the door and promptly lost it again, because he was standing there topless.

I’d thought the wet shirt had shown everything, but it had just been a teaser. Now, I could see the smooth, tan contours of taut stomach and the full, hard slabs of muscle that made up his chest. Everything looked iron-hard, but with warm, touchably-soft skin. “Don’t you have…shirts?” I asked.

“I do. At the hotel.” He nodded toward his suitcase, still sitting in my living room. “I only brought the camera gear. I wasn’t planning on having to get changed.”

I forced myself to turn away and take a deep breath. “I think I’ve got something you can wear.”





Chapter 5


“’Jessica’s Lackey’?” he asked, fingering the T-shirt. “Really?”

“I had an apprentice once, who had to be reminded of her place,” I said.

He fingered the deep green fabric. “I suppose I should be glad it’s not pink. Okay…so shall we start?”

I’d been admiring his pecs through the T-shirt. That had sent my mind roaming off on all sorts of adventures, most of them involving him and me and the counter. “Start?” I asked, panicked. “Start what?”

“Cooking,” he said. “Why…what were you thinking of?”

“Cooking,” I croaked. Then, “But…you’re staying to cook? I don’t need a sous-chef for fruit cake.”

“I still need the story. I could lend a hand, or just shoot some shots of you working.”

My stomach did a backward somersault at the thought of footage of me and my plus-sized body winding up on the screen. The sensible thing would be to send him away, then let him return for a quick interview when it was all done. But suddenly, the kitchen felt different. It had always felt like a warm, welcoming place, a comfortable little nest. Now, it felt as if that warmth would seep away as soon as he left. I didn’t feel like spending the rest of the day on my own.

“Okay,” I said at last. “You can film me. But please stay out of the way.”



I’d decided to go classic, but with slightly more alcohol. A rich, dark batter spiced with sugar, ginger and peel, generously laced with raisins that would soften into seams of luxuriant fruit in the oven. There was rum in there and a couple of other spirits, too. I was still terrified I might have made the wrong decision, but I felt infinitely better for having actually made a decision. Maybe I could still pull this thing off.