Chapter Twenty-Three
MILLER
My fingers buzzed with a prickling sensation the rest of the day—from a damn towel. I tried to rein it in, only to lose it all over again when I went over to Sanchez’s apartment, let myself in, and saw the most gorgeous ass in the air, directly in front of the oven.
It swayed back and forth as music pumped through the sound system, and the scent of cookies filled the air.
I almost had a heart attack when Emerson stood, oven mitts and all, and did another little shimmy before sliding the cookie tray onto the granite countertop.
“Enjoying the show?” she called over her shoulder.
I froze, pissed that I felt my cheeks heating. “You knew I was watching?”
“You walk loud.”
“Bullshit. I’m a panther!”
“Sure.” She still wasn’t looking at me. “A two-hundred-and-fifty-pound panther with size fourteen shoes. It’s amazing how you glide into the room.” With a laugh, she started fanning the cookies with her hands. “You think you float into rooms. You stomp. Trust me. I could feel the vibrations through the floor.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for a cookie. She smacked me with the spatula and glared, and pieces of her blonde hair fell across her flour-caked cheeks.
“What the hell, woman!” I rubbed my hand. It didn’t hurt, but still.
“No.” She thrust the spatula in my face. “Not until Sanchez gets back from the store. He only had enough for me to make one batch of cookies.”
I tried sliding my hand near the cookie sheet again; my fingers almost came into contact with the chocolate before I earned another smack. “Shit, that stung!”
“Miller, I mean it!”
“We aren’t monsters. It’s not like we’re going to eat one full batch.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? Because in high school I distinctly remember you eating two dozen by yourself and then hiding the rest of them in your pillow.”
“Okay, first of all . . .” I leaned my hands on the counter. “I was a growing boy, and I needed protein.”
“Totally not protein, but continue.” She waved the spatula at me.
I jerked it from her hand and pointed it in her face. “Second, you know I used to get hungry in the middle of the night, and why walk all the way downstairs when my pillow had special places for hiding food?”
She shoved the spatula away from her face and put her hands on her gorgeous hips. “Miller! You had your mom sew a snack pouch in your pillow! That’s not how they really make them!”
I grinned smugly. “Best idea I ever had.”
“She was just tired of you waking everyone up with your loud walking up and down the stairs . . . up and down the stairs . . . whining, ‘Mom, I’m hungry!’”
She did my voice perfect.
“You done yet?” I crossed my arms.
“‘Ma! Where’s my chicken!’” She giggled. “‘Ma! We’re out of milk again!’”
Slowly, Em backed away. She knew what was coming.
I eyed her and silently held up one finger, then two, then three.
She squealed.
And I chased.
I always chased.
With a roar, I had my arms wrapped around her body and was carrying her back into the kitchen, ready to do whatever necessary to get a taste.
Of the cookie.
Not her.
Oh hell, maybe both.
A very vivid image of Emerson covered in chocolate flashed through my brain as I set her on her feet and pinned her against the counter, “Cookie me.”
“No.” Her chest heaved.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I can do this all day, Em.”
“One.” She held up a finger. “You can have ONE taste, but that’s it, and don’t tell Sanchez because I swore up and down that we’d wait for him. The poor guy sprinted down the hall, Miller. He nearly broke the button to the elevator.”
“Man must love his cookies,” I rasped.
“I never thought there’d be two guys so equally obsessed in existence,” she said breathlessly.
“Are you just going to stare at me or taste?” Her smile fell as her eyes darted to my mouth and back again.
“Taste,” I whispered, slowly grazing her ass as I reached around her body and grabbed a warm cookie. I lifted it to my lips and took a bite then held it to hers.
She shook her head. “I think I get more pleasure from watching you eat than actually eating them.”
“Then watch away.” I finished off the cookie and was licking my fingers, and then her thumb was brushing the side of my mouth.
My tongue met her thumb.
She didn’t jerk back.
Even her skin tasted amazing.
“You, um, had chocolate.” She gulped and looked away.
It took every ounce of control in my body to keep from kissing her, slamming my mouth against hers and giving her a real taste.
“If either of you ate cookies, you’re dead to me!” Sanchez’s voice boomed, before the door opened.
I destroyed all evidence by rearranging cookies on the sheet and winked at Em before Sanchez made his way into the kitchen.
He eyed the sheet, then me, then the sheet. “You moved one.”
“I did.” I gulped. “And then I was smacked with a spatula. Careful about this one.” I jabbed a finger in Em’s direction. “She’s violent as hell.”
“Aw, my woman got her panties in a bunch over one stolen cookie?” Sanchez teased, pulling her into his arms.
My chest cracked.
Stomach heaved.
I clenched my fists and tried to look away, but it was impossible. They were right in front of me. He touched her lips with his, then sighed against her body and proved to me yet again that she wasn’t mine.
And the sick part was that I was pretty sure he wasn’t doing it on purpose—he just couldn’t help himself.
I knew the feeling, man. It haunted me every second of every day.
“Are we going to eat cookies, or do I need to leave you guys alone for a bit?” I teased.
“Cookies first. Sex second.” Sanchez nodded.
Emerson gasped.
“A man with priorities.” I nodded, trying to forget the sick feeling in my stomach. “I like it.”
He held out his hand for a shake.
I took it.
And tried not to puke as I snatched another cookie and stuffed it in my mouth to keep myself busy. To keep myself sane.
It was either eat all the food—or do something stupid like stake my claim based on the fact that I had put more years in than he had.
But the present didn’t account for the past.
Not anymore.
And we’d agreed to forget it.
And I knew I had two choices. I could avoid them like the plague and lose her forever.
I locked eyes with Em as she returned his bear hug.
Choices sucked.
Avoid.
Or live the lie?
I chose to live the lie.