You can get my steamy, autumn fae romance for free from today until the ninth!
One hot lumberjack, a rustic cabin in the woods, whipped cream and lattes, princes, magic, and fairy wings. This is not the vacation I wanted, but it might be the one I need.
Excerpt from PSL
I turned from him to focus on my cup, while all of my other senses wouldn’t leave him. My skin flushed at the increasing nearness as he shifted on a foot closer to my body. My nose drank in the heavenly scent of crisp leaves by rainwater and acorns cracked on the sidewalk. My ears noted every single ‘Mmm’ of approval as he drank his concoction while wondering if he made the same noises in other rooms of the house.
Sadly, my sense of taste remained out of the equation. So I filled it with the overwhelming rush of cinnamon, the tang of ginger, the comforting embrace of nutmeg, and the dark touch of clove. Each dive into the cup of fall chased away the chilly rain clinging to my skin. I enveloped my hands around the mug while breathing in the scent.
A muffled chuckle caused me to stare up at the man watching the way a wolf does a baby fawn. Time stretched on, amplifying the awkward moment to twelve. “You know what this needs?” I called while snapping my fingers. Not an ‘ah-ha’ snap either. I rolled around the room snapping like popcorn in a microwave out of a nervous habit.
Bustling past him, I hid my face in the fridge. I didn’t realize how hot my cheeks were burning until the cold air struck. While I shoved around simple meals and produce for the coming week, Scott inched closer.
“What? No.” I slammed the fridge door shut with my hip while dropping my two secret weapons on the counter. “I’ve never heard of anyone having pumpkin spice brandy before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Scott said and my imagination took off. What would that combination taste like? Was there such a thing as pumpkin brandy?
Shaking it off while shaking the aerosolized can, I turned to him. His eyes drifted down to what I clutched in my hands and he sighed, “Of course, whipped cream.” We both laughed at the obvious until his gaze raised up not to my face but my entire torso jiggling along with the can.
To my surprise, it was the man who realized what ensnared his attention before I had to say anything. Running a hand back through his soggy hair, Scott turned to check on his fire while I placed the can on the counter. Okay, so that was a good thing. He was being polite.
Then why was I mad as hell that he didn’t stare longer and make “Mmm” noises?
Scrunching my nose, I popped off the blue cap and tipped the whipped cream to my cup. With one eye on the man doing his best to not look at me, I pressed on the nozzle.
I tried twice more and only a pitiful spurt of air escaped. “Come on,” I whined, giving it an even harder shake. “You can’t be empty. I just bought you.”
My flailing intrigued Scott, who left his fireplace vigil. “May I?” he asked, extending a hand to me. I was out of ideas, so I gave it to him.
“Hm,” he mused while tipping it back and forth under the overhead light. “I think it’s clogged.”
Great. So I was doomed to an entire week with no whipped cream. Not the worst punishment handed down, sure, but I was already operating on a slippery slope. One more setback and it was straight to pushing rocks up hills for me.
“Don’t worry,” Scott said, his hazel eyes burning across me. That infectious smile claimed him as he said, “I can fix it.” Placing the can on the counter, he yanked a long nail from his pocket.
I sat up higher. “Do you keep a lot of long objects in your pants?”
“Only one other,” he said so smoothly my heart skipped a beat. “Now, let’s see…” Scott, the handyman who chopped down trees, lined up the nail with the spout on the whipped cream. Which was right about when my brain pieced together what he was about to do.
Too late. He rammed the nail down, piercing not only into the spigot but the can itself. The nail erupted from the end like a boulder out of a volcano and so too burst a massive spray of white sticky foam. It shot from the top flying everywhere. Globs attached to my hair, my chest. I lashed my hands out, trying to protect myself.
Laughing and crying out in shock, I glanced away from the cream fountain to watch Scott grab the can. Oh, he was going to toss it in the sink, or in the trash, or…
That devil turned it so the burst spigot aimed right at me. Scream/giggling, I flailed as whipped cream stuck to my cheeks and forehead. More of the sticky goo attacked my palms, the cream quickly melting from my skin and sliding down to my wrists. I tried to lash out to grab it away, but Scott danced back.
“Two can play at that!” I shouted and grabbed the caramel bottle on the counter. Leaving myself open, I wadded both my hands around the bottle, aimed it, and squeezed. Rich caramel arced through the air to splatter in his golden hair.
Scott gasped while dashing back. Still, he held the whipped cream can up, making certain the last of it dripped out onto me. I gave the bottle another squeeze, the caramel striking his cheek until a long line dripped down to his pecs. Hurling the empty whipped cream can to the sink, Scott yanked off his shirt before the sugar struck it.
Every neuron in my brain focused on that single drop of caramel caressing down his body. It didn’t stop at his fine, rusty chest hair. No, it kept going, swerving with the pockets of abs—which he had by the nine pack—and finally coming to a halt at his waistband. Which I couldn’t stop staring at.
We both looked up into each other’s eyes, our chests heaving. He’s half-naked and drizzled with caramel. I’m coated in whipped cream.
Scott’s hand grabbed my waist, I the nape of his neck. At once, we mashed the cream and caramel together, our lips plunging into the sticky sweet abyss. Holy shit, Scott kissed like he was facing twenty years at sea. The sugary touch burned hot as his tongue wet across my lips. He lapped a dollop of cream from the side of my mouth, then dove in, spreading the melting richness between us.