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“Jesus Christ, Jules,” he rasps. “You are making it extremely difficult to behave responsibly.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

His pupils dilate. “It is currently a very personal problem.”

I clamp down on the grin. Gage releases the ribbon and forces himself to step back. The summer air feels considerably colder without him. He explores my floral tights, then at my skirt.

“These,” he says, pointing at my legs, “are going to become a serious fucking problem for me.”

I glance down innocently. “My stockings?”

“They’re hostile.”

“They haven’t done anything.”

He sniffs. “They know what they did.”

A laugh breaks out of me. He’s too unreasonably, criminally handsome, and I can’t stop staring.

“You’re eye-fucking me,” he points out with a wry grin. “And you assaulted me without adequate preparation time.”

“I kissed you.”

“Violently.”

I stab a finger at him. “You put your hand under my skirt.”

“A momentary lapse in otherwise excellent judgment.”

“Uh-huh. So what will it take for another momentary lapse?”

He runs his fingers over his fade. “Fuck, Jules. Well…” His hand drops. “Maybe the stockings will come off sometime.”

I give him my most weaponized grin. “Maybe everything will sometime.”

Something wicked moves under his calm, but then his phone buzzes. Gage checks the screen, and the change is instant. His smile disappears. “I have to go.”

My stomach sinks. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Too fast. Then he cups my jaw and kisses me. Nothing like before. Brief. Soft. Almost chaste. Somehow, it feels more dangerous. “I’ll text you,” he murmurs against my mouth.

Then he’s backing away. I watch him disappear down the sidewalk, wondering what could make an internet-famous pastry chef change gears that fast. Did I say something wrong? Shame gnaws at my stomach lining. Suggesting nakedness after knowing him less than a day was probably too far, extreme circumstances be damned.

My lips still tingle. But for the first time all day, I’m not smiling.

CHAPTER 8

Gage

She set my blood on fire. The text alert turned it ice-cold.

Three hours after Jubilee tells me maybe everything will come off sometime, I have a child predator chained to a chair in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. Life contains multitudes.

I read the details before I made it halfway back to my bike. Warren Pike had finally surfaced after dropping off police radar six weeks ago, crossing state lines, changing names, and convincing himself that moving a few hundred miles erased what he’d done. It didn’t.

I changed vehicles before leaving the city, kept my appearance forgettable, which means covering my tattoos. It’s a benefit my channel gives me a convenient reason to travel. I call that branch Pastries and Pretty Places. A bakery opening. A regional specialty. Some tiny place serving a croissant the internet insists will change my life. I never post where I am in real time.

Tonight, nobody knows where I am.