“Brommy could do it.”

Moron.

One of her brows arched delicately. “You want me to ask Brommy?”

My shoulders sagged in defeat. “No.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s my line, Snoopy.”

The gleam was back in her eyes. “It works so well I’m stealing it as my own.”

God, she was cute. Perfect. I wanted to span her waist with my hands and set her on the cabinets so I could attend to her mouth properly. I held back and kept baiting. Like a moron.

“I’m surprised you didn’t threaten to ask Anton.”

Emma pretended to think that one out. “I could. He is very nice to look at.” She smiled at my grunt. “But I have a suspicion he’d take it to mean I was interested.”

“And you’re not.” I couldn’t bring myself to frame it as a question. It was hard enough imagining. If she was, I’d . . . fuck if I knew. Go cry somewhere, probably.

But she wrinkled her nose. “Not even a little, honey pie.”

The woman knew how to work me—I’d give her that. She was also observant as hell, and when my shoulders slumped in relief, her gaze narrowed. “We ever going to talk about it?”

No. Make that hell no. “Talk about what?”

The second I asked the question, I knew I was in for trouble. Emma wasn’t the type to take my bullshit lying down.

Her lush lips slanted with dark amusement. “You licked my nipple, Lucian.” I nearly choked on my own spit, my body coming to swift, heated alertness. Not that it stopped her from adding, “Maybe you go around licking women’s nipples all the time, but I tend to give that privilege out to a select few.”

Damn, but I felt privileged. Grateful, even. It remained the highlight of my erotic dreams ever since that night.

My voice grew hoarse and strained. “I don’t do it all the time. It’s been a while.” Face flaming, I cleared my throat. “It was a momentary weakness due to . . .” Desperately wanting you. I’d give anything to lick that sweet little nipple one more time. “Pool shenanigans.”

The light in her eyes told me she was struggling to either not laugh or not strangle me. Maybe both. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yes?” No. I didn’t fucking know. The woman had me tied up in knots. I wanted her. She scared the hell out of me. I wanted to tell her what a bad bet I was. That we both knew she could do better. But I couldn’t make my mouth form the words. And the moment to do so passed me by.

“Hmm” was all she said.

I stood there stoic and composed. And feeling like a fool. I should have turned and walked away, told her that it was best if we ignored each other for the duration of her stay. But that was not what I did. “This wedding-date thing important to you?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. But she didn’t prevaricate, as I had done. “Yes.”

And that was that. I could try to keep my hands to myself. I could try to tamp down my lust for this woman. But I could not see her disappointed.

“All right, honey. I’ll be your wedding man mountain.” I wiped my hands off on the rag, if only to keep myself from reaching for her. “But be forewarned. I’m not going to be charming or chatty or whatever. If someone tries to corner me and talk hockey, I’m bolting.”

I felt like an ass as soon as I finished. But Emma just smiled, as if she’d expected me to say as much. “Ah, Brick, you say that because you haven’t met Macon Saint.”

Whatever that meant.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lucian

“Tell me about this wedding and what to expect.”

In deference to Emma’s exceptional driving skills and my propensity to get a migraine when driving for more than an hour, she was behind the wheel, and I was comfortably slumped in the passenger seat.

Did I prefer to be the one driving? Actually, no. This way I had the perfect excuse to watch Emma as long as I wanted. It was a better view than the Pacific coast outside my window. By far.

Her pert nose wrinkled when she concentrated, which was cute as hell.

“Let’s see. Saint, who you know as Arasmus, is a supremely private person. I don’t think he’d be doing this if not for Delilah.” Emma glanced my way, her eyes sapphire in the sunlight. “She was with us during filming last season and got close to the crew.”

“And you too?” I tried to imagine being fine with watching my woman film love scenes with someone. And struggled. Not that Emma was my woman. And obviously it was all acting. Didn’t change the fact that the man I was about to meet had had his hands on Emma’s breasts. Had kissed her multiple times.

Maybe something of that showed, because she gave me one of those “You’re fooling no one, but you amuse me” looks. “It actually helped, getting to know me. She could witness firsthand that there’s absolutely no real spark between Saint and me.”