I sucked in a breath, staring straight at him without actually looking into his eyes. “I don’t know how to use Excel. I know that is terrible. Utterly terrible for a small business owner who does everything herself. I have to file taxes, keep up with expenses, organize schedules, order supplies, keep inventory. But I just have a drawer. Multiple drawers actually. Full of crumpled up receipts, stained with flour and syrups. I hire someone to deal with payroll because I will never, ever fuck with someone’s paycheck. My financial stuff can be a hot mess because it’s my life, but I have people who depend on that paycheck to pay their rent. So that, I’m organized with. The only reason the IRS hasn’t imprisoned me is because one of my stepdads—the only one I liked, the one who acted like a dad—he’s an accountant. He’s my accountant, and he’s more than happy to be paid in cookies. I need a beta blocker just to go to Trader Joe’s.”

He was watching me with rapt attention, a look on his face I might’ve enjoyed, might’ve even marveled at, had I not been on a roll.

Unfortunately, I was on a roll, so I did neither. So, I did not realize what in the fuck was going to come out of my mouth next. If I’d had any idea what was going to come out of my mouth, I would’ve sewn it shut.

I remained unaware.

“When I get anxious or uninspired, I masturbate,” I announced. The words came out of my mouth, but I didn’t realize I’d said them. Therefore, I kept talking. “I do it because I like sex, pleasure too. But I get ideas for new cakes, pastries while I’m doing it. I solve problems. I relax at the same time I find more energy. I feel more alive.”

When the last syllable left my lips, once the damage was done, I snapped my mouth shut, blood rushing to my face as I realized what I’d just revealed.

What I’d just said out loud.

I said that masturbating gave me ideas for pastries.

Please, Thor, smite me with a crack of fucking lightning.

My feet didn’t work. If they did, there would’ve been a me-shaped hole in my lovely wall that had been repaired and painted just six months ago.

His features had changed, his expression not soft nor intense nor like any expression I’d ever seen. My whole body was aflame, especially between my legs.

Rowan didn’t respond.

Not with words, that is.

He lifted me up. Over his shoulder.

I had not been expecting that. Who would expect a man to literally lift her and fireman carry her toward the stairs?

I’d let out a little squeal when it first happened, but it wasn’t until we were halfway up the stairs that I spoke. “What are you doing?”

Rowan didn’t answer me. He continued his ascent, walking us into my bedroom before setting me down.

I almost gasped when my feet hit the floor and took sight of his face. His face that was white hot. And hungry.