The Bad Luck Wedding Cake Read Online Free PDF Page A

he repeated.
    She lifted the ladle to her mouth and sipped. Her eyes slowly closed. She licked her lips and smiled.
    Never in his life had Tye witnessed a more erotic act.
    The scent of Magic swirled around them, and his nostrils flared to take it in. Her lashes lifted. Their gazes met and held. His breathing quickened; his mouth went dry. Again, arousal hit him, hot and hard and heavy.
    Magic.
    As though it had a will of its own, his hand rose, his fingers wrapping around hers as they held the ladle. Claire’s eyes widened as hot liquid splashed over the sides and spilled to the floor. The effects of the scent roared through him, took hold of him, captured his will.
    He wanted to taste the Magic, too, but not from the damned spoon. He wanted to drink the sorceress’s Magic straight from Claire Donovan’s mouth. As he lowered his head, he demanded in a raspy voice, “Share.”
    At her whispered gasp, he paused and his gaze met hers, deep and shadowed blue like the night sky as it gave way to the universe. Magic. Enchantress. Seductress.
    What the hell was he doing?
    Abruptly, Tye pulled away. The spoon clattered to the floor. Desire remained a driving need within him as he stared at the droplets of amber-colored fluid collected on the tile. What had come over him? Why had he acted so totally out of character?
    After a moment’s thought, revelation widened his eyes. He glanced from the floor to the soup pot to the muffins on the table.
    To the delectable, delicious, and dangerous Claire Donovan.
    A breeze from the open door stirred the scent of her elixir around them again, and desire hit him with another wallop. Good God. Miss Donovan’s Magic was aptly named. The woman added more than flour and cinnamon and eggs to her baked goods.
    Obviously, Claire had cooked up an aphrodisiac.

To avoid bad luck, always stir a good roast gravy with a wooden spoon.

    CHAPTER 3

    I CAN’T BELIEVE HE almost kissed me .
    Three days after the fact, the memory of the moment continued to shock and befuddle Claire. Even in a place as wild and untamed as Fort Worth, men didn’t force themselves on ladies they’d only just met. Not if they were gentlemen. Didn’t that give a nice fat clue into Tye McBride’s character.
    I wonder why he pulled away?
    She dabbed her paintbrush at the spot of white she’d missed on an interior wall, obliterating the dry place with an uneven stroke of pale yellow. “You’re better off not asking that question, Claire Donovan,” she muttered. Pursuing that line of thought any further meant examining why she hadn’t pulled away first. Experience had taught Claire it didn’t pay to be too curious.
    But she was still a woman, with a woman’s weaknesses, so when the masculine groan and childish squeal of distress sounded from next door, she put down her paintbrush and hurried to investigate. What she found left her gasping. “Oh, my.”
    Afternoon sunshine beamed through Fortune’s Design’s plate glass window, illuminating the interior of Jenny McBride’s dress shop. Upon Claire’s earlier visits to the store, notions, trims, and bolts of fabric had filled the shelves along one wall. A display table near the front usually held sketchbooks, markdown items, and an ivy plant droopy from lack of water. Normally, the work-table stood flush against the wall.
    Today was not a normal day.
    Claire stopped right inside the front door and surveyed the surroundings in shock. Directly in front of her lay an overturned chair. Beside it, a thread box rested on its side amidst the broken remnants of a pottery flower vase. “Oh my,” she repeated as she stepped around the chair. Her hem collected a web of scarlet thread, and her shoe bumped one of the dozens of wooden spools lying scattered on the floor, sending it rolling across the wood to slam against the baseboard.
    “Careful, Miss Donovan,” came a man’s voice. “I darn near broke a leg on one of those. Never realized a small scrap of wood could be so