He would just have to be what she needed. What she wanted.

Braden-Fucking-Mack.

What the hell was she doing?

Scratching an itch. That’s what she was doing. And nothing more. At five past eight that night, Liv turned onto Mack’s street and slowed to look for house numbers in the dim lighting of the street lamps that cast a warm, yellow glow upon the manicured lawns of the subdivision where he lived. She’d figured he lived in luxury, seeing how he was willing to pay a thousand bucks for a cupcake, but even Liv was unprepared for the overt displays of wealth that dripped from every house she passed. Massive brick and stone houses rose two stories high over elaborate landscaping, their facades illuminated by discreet floodlights designed to show off their attributes without being obvious.

She’d known enough rich people in her life to know there was rarely a noble reason for such ostentatious displays of wealth. The owners of these homes either had a point to make or had something to hide.

The latter, she knew, was always worse.

A half mile up the street, she finally found a stone mailbox with his address. She turned left into the paved driveway and drove beneath a soaring canopy of mature trees. A short distance beyond the trees, his house rose above the lawn.

The front door swung open as she slowed in front of the portico. Mack walked out wearing a pair of golf shorts and a T-shirt that hugged him in good places. He jogged down the few steps and greeted her at her car. Her heart did the thud-thud thing, but she shot it down.

Tonight was about physical release. Nothing more.

“Hey,” he said, holding open her door. Before she knew what was happening, he bent and dropped his lips on hers. “Got anything to carry in?”

Speechlessness was not a natural state of being for her, but it had grabbed hold now. “Cupcakes in the back seat,” she stammered.

“I got ’em.”

Liv followed him inside and tried not to gape at the luxury. The entryway soared eighteen feet and was centered by a circular staircase. A marble floor was cold beneath her feet when she slipped off her shoes.

“You find it okay?” he asked conversationally, carrying the covered plate.

“Yep.”

“Kitchen is this way.”

This time, speechlessness was not the problem. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “You have to be kidding me.”

This was the kitchen of her dreams. A real chef’s kitchen. A gas range with eight burners and a double oven. Oh, the things she could do in here.

“You like?” Mack’s amused voice cut through her culinary fantasies as he set down the plate.

“Why do you need a kitchen like this?” she snapped, cranky for no apparent reason other than her nerves.

“Because I have to eat?” He winked.

“Do you even cook?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Frozen pizza. Sometimes I even shove a lasagna in the microwave.”

Those were fighting words. Mack knew it too. His grin could’ve melted ice.

“You do cook,” she said, realizing she’d been played.

“Of course I can cook. I’m an adult. Feeding myself is part of the deal.”

She rolled her eyes.

“How about a drink?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Mack pulled a chilled chardonnay from his refrigerator, uncorked it, and poured two glasses. He handed one to her and let his fingers linger against hers.

“I might need something harder than this,” she said, backing away.

“I can help with that.”

Laughter bubbled up from her chest with a buoyancy that broke the tension. She wanted to kiss him for that reason alone. “That was some bush-league sexual innuendo, Mack. I expect better.”

He chuckled in that low, manly way of his as he shoved the cork back into the top of the wine bottle.

“You seem pretty good at that, though,” she said.

“Good at what?”

She nodded at the bottle. “Sticking long things into tight holes.”

He belly-laughed—an honest-to-god, open-mouthed burst of surprise that lifted his entire face and felt to Liv like winning the lottery. Unexpected, thrilling, and totally life-changing.

Mack brought his glass around from behind her but left one hand on the edge of the counter, forcing him to lean just enough that her nipples brushed against his chest. His voice and his eyes teased. “And you think I’m bush-league?”

She shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “I might be a little rusty at the plate.”

“Haven’t rounded the bases in a while, huh?”

“I could stand to practice my bat handling.”

“Want a home run tip?”

“Always.”

He leaned again. “It’s all about how you grip the wood.”

“Is this where you teach me about finding the sweet spot?”

He winked. “It happens to be my all-star specialty.”

Liv fanned her face. “Damn. Is it hot in here or is it just my vagina?”

His laughter this time made her heart hop like a caffeinated rabbit. Still smiling, Mack leaned against the island behind him, one hand propped against the countertop and the other cradling the wineglass. It looked ridiculously fragile in his strong, thick fingers. The picture he presented was of unapologetic, effortless masculinity. And she had just enough swooning girly girl in her to appreciate every inch of it.

“This is an awfully big house for a single man,” she said.

He looked around before returning his gaze to hers. “I won’t be single forever.”

“What if the future Mrs. Mack doesn’t want to live here?”

His eyes registered genuine surprise. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“I know it’s crazy, but some women like to have a say in their own homes,” she teased over the rim of her glass.

“I can adjust. I plan to treat the future Mrs. Mack like a princess, so whatever she wants, she’ll have.”

Liv snorted. “You really have read too many romance novels.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And you really haven’t read enough.” Mack sipped his wine. “You want a tour?”

No, Liv wanted to say. Because she didn’t want to learn anything else about him that would suck her even more deeply into his dangerous whirlpool of stereotype-defying surprises. She didn’t want to see more pictures of his family or find out which room he envisioned for the nursery one day.

“Come on,” Mack said, pulling away from the counter. “I’ll show you my book collection.”

Liv let out an exaggerated groan. “Shoot me now.”

Mack reached for her free hand and wrapped her fingers in his. “You need a little romance in your life.”

He tugged her gently to follow him back down the hallway. They turned left at the staircase and walked into a den where floor-to-ceiling bookcases in dark wood boasted an entire library of not just romance novels but books on politics, history, sports, and science. Damn him. She needed him to be a mindless playboy, not a man of deep thought.

A pair of overstuffed leather chairs bracketed a brick fireplace. One looked more worn-in than the other, and an unwelcome image flashed through her mind of Mack reclining there, feet up on the ottoman, reading a book on the fall of the Roman Empire.

On the mantel above the fireplace, a line of family photos caught her attention. She let go of his hand and walked closer to them. She brushed her fingers over a gold frame containing a photo of a smiling man holding up a fish. “Is that your dad?” she asked quietly.

Behind her, he cleared his throat. “No. My uncle.”

“Do you have any pictures of your father?”

“Not in here.”

The catch in his voice brought her around. This was why she didn’t want a tour. She couldn’t afford to think of him as a grieving son who still got choked up just thinking about his father. She sidestepped him and crossed the room to the section of bookcases where he kept his romance novels.

“Which one is your favorite?” she asked, tilting her head to read the cracked spines.

“This one.” His arm reached over shoulder to a shelf just above eye level. His long fingers plucked a well-loved book from the collection and held it down for her.

She took it from him and read the title aloud. “Mistletoe Dreams.”

“I’ve read it at least a dozen times.”

She turned the book over to read the back cover. Her eyes skimmed over the plot. Single mom returns to her hometown and falls in love with the stranger next door. Something about a rescue dog and the true meaning of Christmas. “Why is this one your favorite?”

“You’ll have to read it to find out.”

She returned the book to its place. “Got anything about serial killers? I’d rather read that. Might give me some ideas about how to deal with Royce.”

Mack suddenly flattened his hand against the frame of the bookcase, blocking her in from behind. His mouth brushed her earlobe. “Why did you say yes to tonight?”

Liv felt faint. “Besides wanting to see the kitchen you kept bragging about?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

Her stomach pitched. Keep it physical. Keep it meaningless. “I’ve made a decision.”

“Good decision or bad decision?”

“Probably bad.”

“My favorite kind.” He inched closer, bringing his body flush against hers. “What is it?”

She set down her glass on the shelf and turned around in the heat of his half embrace. “You and I are going to have sex.”

He smacked his hand across his chest. “I’m officially scandalized. Are you suggesting we rub our cloacas together?”

“Something like that, yes, but I swear to God, if you only last three seconds, I’m going to shout it to everyone that the famous Braden Mack is a sexual fraud.”

He growled something dirty and yanked her against his hard body. “If that’s a challenge, I accept.”

Liv backed up until she collided with the bookshelf. “You’re probably curious how I came to this decision.”