Taste for Trouble by Susan Sey

James’ touch. There was a
certain comfort in even odds.
    A
comfort which evaporated when James suddenly spoke from directly behind her.
    “What
in the name of God is that smell?”
    Her
heart crashed into triple time and she clapped one hand to her chest to keep it
contained. Pain, bright and burning, flashed through her other hand as tea
slopped over the rim of the mug onto her fingers. She dropped the mug in order
to flap her burnt fingers in the air while mentally reviewing all the curse
words she’d forbidden herself to use out loud.
    The
mug was no match for James’ imported glazed porcelain tiles, though. It
shattered, unleashing yet another wave of boiling tea in the neighborhood of Bel’s
bare feet. She gathered herself for a heroic leap back, but found her feet
already dangling four inches above the floor.
    “Well,
that was a little extreme, don’t you think?” James’ voice came, exasperated and
amused, just below her ear. His hands were tough under her elbows, his body warm
and strong against her back as he carted her bodily toward the sink. He flipped
on the faucet and shoved her hand under the gush of cold water. “I don’t happen
to care for boiled lawn clippings myself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t drink
them.”
    She
spit a strand of hair out of her mouth and glared over her shoulder at him. “I
didn’t intend to drop it, you know.”
    He
smiled at her, amusement crinkling the corners of those oddly changeable eyes
of his, and she was suddenly aware that he hadn’t let her go. Water flowed over
their joined hands under the tap while his body nestled comfortably up against
her backside. A warmth snaked into her belly that had nothing to do with the
recent misapplication of hot tea to her person, so she concentrated on the painfully
cold water running over her burns instead.
    “Tossed
it on a whim, then, did you?” He studied her gravely. “Wouldn’t have pegged you
for the impulsive type.”
    She
glared at him. “I’m not. And if you’d had the manners to announce your presence
instead of sneaking up behind me, I wouldn’t have burned myself. Nor would I
have had cause to smash the single mug you seem to own.”
    “Oh.
Well, that’s too bad about the mug.” He pursed up that perfect mouth of his and
considered this. Then he peeked over her shoulder and down the front of her
robe. “But there are benefits to doing it my way, too.”
    Bel
glanced down, then seized her gaping lapels together with her free hand. She
was wearing a t-shirt under the robe, but it was old and baggy, and from that
angle, he’d probably gotten a decent look straight down it. And since Will likely
had a point about the—what had he had called them? Star fuckers?—James had
probably seen down a whole lot of women’s shirts. Which meant he was used to ogling
a female landscape quite different from the flat, prairie-like expanse of
blinding white skin she’d just treated him to. But that was no excuse for
mocking her. Benefits, indeed.
    “I
beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “I realize my dress is inappropriate. I
didn’t anticipate company.” She stepped to the side, putting a few badly needed
feet of space between her and the easy strength of his body.
    “Now,
now. No need to poker up. I was just having some fun with you.” He gave her
that shucks, ma’am grin she was starting to dislike heartily, flipped
off the water and passed her a dishtowel. He nodded toward her hand. “That
going to be all right?”
    She
patted her hand dry, gave it a quick glance and shrugged. “Of course. I bake
for a living. I get worse than this twice a week.”
    He
reached for the hand in question, and though her impulse was to snatch it back
and run screaming for the safety of her bedroom, she figured that might be
overreacting. And revealing. James clearly had some sort of investment in
keeping her off balance, and if she kept stuttering and blushing every time he
touched her it would only encourage him to