Decisions, decisions: What can I wear that’s slutty enough to say, “We could totally get it on if you’re game,” to Drew Delaney, but not so slutty it’ll look like I’m pimping myself to the seven-year-olds at this birthday party?

I rifle through the clothes hung in my closet for what feels like the billionth time. That strapless number—too much skin up top. This mini skirt—too much skin down below. This flowery dress will make me look like I’m seven. Gah! Why can’t I just bring him his very own cupcake with WANNA BANG? spelled out with candy letters?

Hmmm. That’s not a bad idea. But with my luck these days, I’d probably accidentally include it in the boxes for the kids, and then the only banging would be the door behind me on my way out.

I sigh and flip through the hangers some more. As if on cue, Mom appears in my bedroom doorway.

“Have you decided what you’re going to wear?” she says in an overeager voice, as if I’m sixteen and about to head off on my very first date.

And as if I’m sixteen and about to head off on my first date, I have the urge to flop on my bed and moan, “I don’t have anything!”

Instead, I clear the angst from my throat and say, “It’d just a birthday party, Mom. A kid’s birthday party.”

She leans against the doorframe. “But Drew will be there. He asked you to come.”

“To bring cake.”

“Because you’d already caught his eye. Even though you didn’t bother to tell your mother you’d run into him.”

My hand settles on a navy blue dress I somehow overlooked before. That color always looks great on me. I pull out the dress and hold it against me. “Mom. I’m twenty-nine. I’m not going to give you a play-by-play on every person I talk to any given day.”

“That’s a good one,” Mom says with an approving nod to the dress. And it is. The fall of the wrap dress will show I have cleavage while keeping it discreetly contained, and the cut will emphasize my waist while being kind to my thighs. And it’ll almost hit my knees. Perfect!

“From what I’ve read online, he hasn’t been serious with anyone in a while,” Mom says as I pull it on. “Taking it slow after his divorce. But it’s been three years. He’s got to be feeling ready to settle down again soon.”

“Or maybe he’s happy to keep it casual for the rest of his life,” I retort, tugging the dress on. “When you’re Drew Delaney, you can get away with that.”

“I don’t know.” Mom moves to help tie the waist. “People get tired of living that way. They start to see what’s important. Look at Clooney,” she adds, as if I’m a stunning human rights lawyer with a wardrobe of amazing designer dresses and a standing invitation to the U.N. “Drew’s always had a good head on his shoulders, even during his wild period. I watched him grow up too, you know.”

Maybe she’s right. After all, even once the band took off, Drew still made time to stop by his parents’ house and hang with McKenna—and me. And when he saw me on the front porch in that terrible prom dress, he cared enough to take pity on my misery and get me out of there. If twenty-something-year-old Drew wasn’t a total manslut, then maybe there’s a chance thirty-something Drew isn’t either.

Still, I don’t like the way Mom is looking at me, like she’s already picked out our baby names and the house down the street. My time back home is strictly temporary—no putting down roots.

“Mom,” I say firmly. “He’s a very . . .” Sexy, drool-worthy, smoking hot, eminently fuckable. “. . . charming man, but this isn’t the start of some grand romance. I don’t even know if he’s going to stick around in town. I don’t know if I am.”

“Well,” Mom says, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t believe me at all, “there’s nothing wrong with at least having a little fun. Especially with a boy like that. One look at you like this and he’ll want to stay.”

I look down at the dress and smile. I don’t care about what Drew’s doing a month or more from now—as long as he likes what he sees today.

* * *

Drew pulls up outside the house in a Jaguar sedan—relatively low key, but, you know, still a Jaguar. I don’t let myself think about the fact that it probably cost more money than I’ve ever made in my life. I’ve got boxes of cupcakes and supplies to haul. I brought everything onto the porch so we could skip the part where he’d knock on the door and Mom would insist on fawning over him for the better part of an hour.

He approaches as I head down the walk, sliding down his sunglasses as he takes me in. “Well, hello there,” he says with enough appreciation that my skin tingles from head to toe. “Apparently it’s my birthday too.” His gaze moves to the stack of supplies. “What’s all this? How many cakes did you make?”

“I did better than a birthday cake,” I tell him. “We’re bringing a whole cupcake decorating bar. I did it for a friend’s niece a few years back. Kids love it.”

“Amazing!” he laughs. “Evan loves getting messy, this is great.”

He grabs one of the boxes from me and helps me load everything into the trunk. His arm brushes mine a couple times, and I consider leaning in a little more intentionally. Then I consider that Mom might be—no, almost definitely is—watching us from the front window.

Drew opens the passenger door for me, all gentleman-like, which probably makes Mom swoon. What makes me swoon is the mischievous grin he flashes me as I climb inside.

I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could skip this party and get straight to some non-kid-appropriate activities?

“So, Godfather,” I say, when we’re on the road. “Who trusted you with their kid’s spiritual welfare?”

Drew laughs. “One of my buddies from high school. I think they were more interested in locking down some A-grade birthday gifts. But Evan’s a great kid. Energetic,” he adds, with a warning note. “But he’s a cool dude.”

We stop outside a house on a cute suburban cul-de-sac, and a scrap of a kid who’s all elbows, knees, and freckles comes racing out the balloon-bedecked door. “Uncle Drew!” he shouts, and leaps into Drew’s arms. Drew chuckles and spins the kid around in the air, both of them beaming, and okay, my heart is getting kind of mushy right now. I wouldn’t have pegged Drew for a family guy, but it looks good on him.

But then, what doesn’t?

We unload my supplies and head on through to the back yard. The party is still inside, judging from the yells and thunder of footsteps echoing from the house. “This is a lifesaver,” Evan’s mom says, as I set everything out on some kid-sized tables on the grass. “Last year, they managed to smear chocolate frosting all over the carpet. At least, I tell myself it was frosting.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry—all the food colorings are water-based,” I tell her. “You can just turn a hose on them and clean them off.”

“The magic words.” She grins.

I set out trays of plain cupcakes, tubes of frosting, and bowls of sprinkles and candy—everything from marshmallows to fun-sized snickers bars. I’m just about done when the kids start pouring out of the house.

“We get to play with the food?” one girl asks, her eyes wide with delight.

“Go crazy, kid.” I hand her a tube of pink frosting. I hover, offering tips and pointing out the possibilities. The wide eyes and gasps of delight make the prep time totally worth it.

Drew swoops in to construct his own creation, making the kids laugh at his jujube version of the Eiffel Tower. He shoots me a sly smile. “Kind of reminds me of your particularly famous cake.”

“A miniature version.”

He scoots around the table to whisper in my ear. “I promise there’s nothing teeny tiny about the real thing.”

Is he flirting?

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know if I can believe that just on hearsay. Plus, you know, it’s not just size but what you can do with it . . .”

“Are you saying you’d like a demonstration?”

“I could be persuaded.”

His voice drops even lower. “And what sort of persuasion would light your fire, exactly?”

My fire is not only lit but blazing away, but I don’t get a chance to make any recommendations, because right then one of the kids waves at me. “Miss Baker Lady! There’s no more jelly beans.”

“Oh,” Drew says. “I saw those. Right over . . .” He bends down beside me to grab the box—and surreptitiously trails a finger down my bare calf. Every nerve in my body jolts into heightened awareness, like a switch that’s been flipped.

Oh yeah, he’s definitely flirting.

And maybe it’s not quite as subtle as I thought. Five minutes later, as Evan is building his third cupcake, he looks up and says, “So, Uncle Drew, is she your girlfriend?”

Drew glances over at me. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked her.”

“Well, are you going to?”

“I have been considering it. Do you think I should?”

Half of the kids are watching the exchange now. And Evan’s mom, with a wry smile. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are red. Would it be acceptable to hide under the table?

Evan sizes me up as only a seven-year-old can. “Yeah. For sure. She’s pretty.”

“She is,” Drew agrees. “Very pretty.”

Okay, now my cheeks are going to burn right off.

“And also she bakes really good cakes.”

Drew raises his hands. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic. Do I need to fight you for her? Because I will.”

Evan rolls his eyes at his godfather’s teasing in a way that clearly says, Grown-ups! But clearly his mom takes pity on me, because she claps her hands together and announces the one thing designed to be way more interesting that me and my love life.

“OK, kids. Time for presents!”

I breathe a sigh of relief as they all thunder inside—leaving a table full of debris. I start cleaning up, grabbing a stack of dirty plates and taking them through to the kitchen. Drew follows me inside, and for a moment, the buzz of the party fades away behind the glass-paned door.

“I think that went well,” I say, dumping the dishes in the sink. “What do you think?”

“I think Evan’s in love.” Drew grins. “You need to stop seducing all my under-age friends with your cupcakes.”

I laugh. “Now, if I could just be a hit with the over-eighteens . . .”

“Oh, I think you have some fans there too.” Drew gives me a smoldering look, and I gulp. He’s watching me with those soulful eyes, staring deep into mine like we suddenly have this connection—

“You have icing on your face,” Drew says.

Damn. “Hazards of the job. If you only go for icing-free girls, you’re talking to the wrong one. Where?”

Instead of pointing, he reaches out and slides his thumb along the line of my jaw. A trail of sparks shoots through my body. He brings his hand back to his lips and sucks the tip of his thumb into his mouth. I can’t tear my eyes away. His gaze holds mine, still playful, but intent.

“No,” he says, “I think I’m all about the icing. And the woman underneath.”

His hand rises to my face again, tracing across my cheek and into my hair as he tugs my mouth to his.

Oh. Oh. This is what it’s like to really kiss Drew Delaney. My lips part under the firm, hot pressure of his, the sweetness of that icing slipping over my tongue. He shifts us so my back is braced against the counter. His body aligns with mine from chest to thighs, a length of solid muscle. He bows his head, adjusting the angle, kissing me even deeper. So deep I’m practically drowning in the feel of him, but that’s okay. I want to. I want to do nothing but melt into this incredible, scorching hot man. I want him to devour me like I’m one of my baked creations. Because if just kissing him feels this good . . .

My hand runs down his side, reveling in the sculpted torso I can feel through his shirt. My teenage fantasies had nothing on the real thing. Drew hums low in his throat. His fingers graze down my body to grip my thigh, and that flame that was blazing earlier lights up right between my legs. I arch into him automatically, kissing him back harder—

And childish laughter carries through the frosted glass of the door.

Drew pulls back and I straighten up just in time as a bunch of the kids come racing through to the backyard. I suck my lower lip into my mouth. It’s tender, sensitized.

I want to feel his mouth on it again.

Drew smiles at me like he’s thinking the exact same thing, and if I didn’t have the counter to hold onto, I think I might have melted right to the floor.

“What do you say we grab dinner?” he suggests. “Just the two of us.”

I’d say yes to just about anything if it means any chance of getting back to kissing him. My voice comes out a little breathless, but I don’t really care.

“Help me finish the cleanup, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”