Make It Sweet

by Kristen Callihan

His voice was somewhat shaky when he finally spoke. “You’re early.” So many things to say. Scream, maybe? Cry? But I was numb. Completely numb. So I said the only thing I could. “Funny, I think I arrived just in time.” And like that, the carefully constructed life I was so proud of crumbled to dust.

fiancée was gone, my career was gone, and I was broken.

I was shit to be around. Mamie was the only one who could stand me anymore. I knew all this.

I’d lost all my ability to charm; it had leaked out of me and never returned. Some days I wondered about that, about how I’d changed so much, so quickly that I no longer felt right in my own skin.

“You’ve invited an actress here?” “I’ve been told famous people prefer to lick their wounds in a private setting,” Mamie deadpanned. Point to Mamie.

The last thing I could handle was interacting with pretty blonde actresses.

And there it was. I knew without a doubt that my meddling grandmother was matchmaking. We both knew. The difference being Mamie actually thought she had a good chance of succeeding.

How wrong she was. She could plunk down the most perfect woman in the world, and it wouldn’t matter. Not anymore.

I noticed the guy in baggage claim immediately. Mainly because he was gorgeous. With swagger. There were different types of gorgeous. The flawless pretty-boy, take-a-picture-and-hang-it-on-your-wall-to-admire gorgeous. And then there was the rough-and-tumble, oozing-sexual-energy, make-your-knees-weak-and-your-insides-flutter gorgeous—with swagger. This guy had swagger to spare.

Swagger in the loose-hipped, confident stride as he headed my way. I watched him approach, unable to pretend I didn’t notice him. How could I not?

He was still too far away for me to discern the color of his eyes other than that they were pale and staring back at me from under stern dark brows. Oh my.

any occasion in which someone approached me these days was cause for caution. From the moment I’d decided to major in theater, I’d been chasing fame, needing its protection and power so I could land the roles I’d wanted. Now that I had achieved it, I found myself struggling with its constraints;

Now, I was simply guarded.

There wasn’t a hint of softness in that face, except for his mouth, which was generous and could have been plush if he ever stopped pressing it in a grim line.

The true showstoppers, however, were his eyes. Oh hell, his eyes. I gaped. I couldn’t help it; they were stunning. Deep set under the angry slashes of his brows and framed by long thick lashes, his eyes were an eerie icy green.

He knew who I was. A fan. Disappointment tweaked.

Fans were definitely out of the potential dating pool. It would be too weird and . . . why the hell was I even thinking of dating? I wasn’t here to meet someone. I was here for a relaxing getaway, to read some books, maybe sleep all day, lick my wounds in private. And all this man had done was ask a question.

I might have imagined the glint of amusement in those frost-green eyes; the rest of his strong features remained granite. Which served to fluster me even more.

“I like to be prepared,” I felt compelled to say. He gave me a sly, sidelong glance. “Didn’t have a pen handy, though.” “A pen?” “For that autograph I wanted.” Argh.

A year ago, I’d have been laying on the charm from word one, already plotting to woo her into my bed. I would have been pleased as punch that Mamie put her in my path.

It’s a nice place to . . .” Heal. Mourn.

They killed her off without warning. In front of her peers.

I’d already begun to worry about being typecast.

He’d been suffering but hadn’t been able to admit it.

“That is if you’re feeling . . .” Shit. “Ah, I mean if it’s all right with you.” The engine ticked as he stared at me, obviously hearing my slip.

I blinked up at him, all sweet innocence. “Lucian, are you accusing me of lying?” “Yep.” Well then.

“Thank you, Emma, for saving me from my masculine pride.” I couldn’t have hidden my answering smile if I’d tried;

“That is so sweet.” “You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?” “It’s so easy. At least make me work for it.”

He grunted. As expected. I fought a smile. The man practically vibrated with the need to retreat.

I suspected being stuck with a stranger for over an hour and suffering through a migraine had pushed him to his limit.

I hadn’t imagined that. He’d flirted, but he didn’t like that he had.

I did miss Tate. But I didn’t want to go back home. Truth was I didn’t have a home now. It was unsettling, and I snuggled down into the bed, wrapping my arms around that empty ache that took up residence in my chest.

No mention of Lucian. But I wouldn’t—couldn’t—ask. This was his grandmother. And something told me if I showed the slightest interest in his whereabouts, she’d be all over that—either to warn me off him or matchmake.

Never again. I wasn’t going to fall for a man just because I admired the way his ass filled out his jeans. There had to be more. A connection past the physical. Which definitely meant not lusting over a pair of jade-green eyes under stern brows.

Amalie laughed. “Goodness, but I hope you show a bit of temper now and then. I suspect you might need it soon enough.”

Amalie seemed entirely too pleased with herself. I didn’t have to wonder why; a few moments later, her grumpy grandson strode around the corner with a harried expression, as if called to an emergency.

But he didn’t turn on his heel and leave. He visibly braced himself and strode forward, the glint in his eyes promising retribution.

I knew better. I really did. When Mamie texted that she needed me and to hurry, I did just that, dropping the project I was in the middle of and coming to her aid.

I knew it was time for her to have coffee and cakes with Emma. But all I could think was what if Emma had gotten hurt, tripped, or—fuck—fell off the side of the hill. Ridiculous. I was such a sucker. All made apparent when I practically ran onto the terrace and found my grandmother, Sal, and Emma sitting in obvious safety and contentment.

Because it was clear to everyone there that my sly grandmot...

Mamie was crafty enough not to put me next to her, where I could pretend she wasn’t there, but right where I could see her. And fucking want.

My grandmother was evil. I’d always known this. Hell, it used to amuse me when she turned those evil powers on others, which was probably why I was suffering through this coffee time from hell right now. Karma. It was a bitch.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I tried to get it together. I was not doing this. Sal’s gaze clashed with mine, and he looked about two seconds away from laughing his ass off. Yep. He knew exactly how badly I was affected.

“Imagine it, huh?” Emma said, still smiling. I knew she was talking about exercising, but my randy newfound sex drive heard it differently and kept on imagining us in bed. Hell.

And yet here I was, wanting to impress this woman with what I had made.

I knew the taste in her mouth, how smooth that cream was on her tongue. That was my cream. I made it. My hands gave her that pleasure, whether she knew it or not. Her moans were because of me. The rush of it washed over me, and I was a little dizzy.

Yeah, I was a chickenshit for not wanting Emma to know she was eating my food. But there it was; I’d become . . . shy about it.

And I stuffed another macaron in my mouth. I’d probably leave the table with a food headache, but it was either cram my face with sweets or stare at Emma like a moony-eyed fool.

“Alas, my Titou was not interested.” “How would you know, Mamie?” I took another macaron. “You never offered.” “Well, now I just might.” She slapped my arm playfully. The corner of my mouth curled. “Too late. I am offended and no longer interested.”

Given that Mamie’s father, my great-grandfather, had trained me, she knew exactly how much baking meant to me and how much I had needed to get back to it.