“Carly,” he said, soft, deep.

She sucked in her breath as if surprised to hear him call her by name—or at least by the right name.

She looked like she might dart at any moment, so he said, as gently as he could manage, “Please don’t run away from me.”

His eyes locked on hers, which shone beneath the streetlamp as big and expressive as ever. She wore her long hair loose tonight, falling around her shoulders, messy, pretty. She’d tied a long cardigan sweater over her top and blue jeans, wearing something plain and dark underneath. So simple looking, this girl. And yet . . . so damn complicated.

And as he stood there, probably three feet away from her, he still wanted her. No matter how simple. No matter how complicated. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t deny it, either. The same chemistry that had drawn them together so easily that night in Traverse City flowed between them now, hot and palpable. The same but different. Very different.

Would she be surprised to know he thought she was prettier like this than on the night they’d met? She’d been a knockout as Desiree, but in all truth, that night she’d been the kind of woman you thought of fucking, not spending time with. Here, now, she looked like the kind of woman he wanted to be with, talk with . . . and yeah—fuck, too. But again, it was so very different from the first time.

He swallowed, trying to find words. “Listen, I—”

“I’m sorry—I have to go,” she said quickly, then stepped down off the curb and moved briskly across the street before disappearing inside her building.

Jake stood silently watching, torn inside. In too many different directions.

He burned to know what made this woman tick. He ached desperately to take her to bed. And he knew it would still be a hell of a lot smarter to just walk away and leave it all alone.

So walk away he did, on a sigh, back to Schubert’s, where he drank a root beer and indeed chatted with more of the locals and started to feel, bit by bit, as if he were beginning to fit in here, becoming a part of this town.

But would he leave it alone? Leave her alone? That part he wasn’t sure about yet.

He should. But the hell of it was . . . he wasn’t certain he could.

Now she stood in line at the pie baking booth on the Fourth of July, waiting to enter the annual contest—even if she was having second thoughts about it this year.

“Well, hello, Carly.”

She looked up to see Mary Reinholdt, who ran the contest, ready to take her entry, as she placed the pies on the booth’s plywood counter, painted red.

“Your signature chocolate cream, I see,” the older lady said with a smile as she assigned the pies a number, which she taped onto the tin plates. “Given the heat, we’ll get these in the fridge until judging and auction time, of course. Good luck!”

In accordance with a Turnbridge tradition that went back at least seventy-five years, the second pie would be auctioned off after the contest, the baker sharing the first two slices with the person who bought it. Once upon a time, it had been a romantic frivolity—and it was well known in the community that Carly’s parents had first dated after her father bought one of her mother’s chocolate pies. Now, however, the tradition felt pretty obsolete—last year Carly had ended up sharing her pie with Tiffany Cleary, who’d made a point of outbidding everyone because her dad loved chocolate pie. In other years, Carly had eaten pie with Frank Schubert and also one of her mother’s bridge partners. Some men made a point of buying the pie baked by their wife or girlfriend, but the romance of the tradition was mostly a thing of the past and the “sharing” part seemed silly to Carly at this point.

And the sharing part was also what had almost made her not enter this year—just in case the new town cop decided to show up and bid. Since he’d seemed so intent on talking to her ever since they’d met—the second time.

But while eating lunch one day outside the deli with Dana and Beth Anne, Carly had mentioned that she might not enter and her friends had nearly gone crazy.

“You have to enter!” Beth Anne insisted. “Everybody loves your pie, and besides, if you don’t, that harpy Julie Marie Steinberg might win, and I’d hate that.” Julie Marie Steinberg’s apple pie had, in fact, won the year before Carly’s pie had begun taking the top honor, and the woman—a fairly recent transplant to Turnbridge—was always insinuating that her baked goods were better than what she bought at Beth Anne’s. “And if my peach pie were to do well, too, we might shut her out of first and second place altogether this year.”

“And besides, why wouldn’t you enter?” Dana asked.

Carly had hesitated, the faint taste of bile rising to her throat.

“Well?” Dana persisted.

At which point Carly had sighed, felt stuck, and given an honest answer. “Okay, maybe this is stupid, but I guess I’m afraid that new cop will buy my pie.”

Dana just blinked her disbelief. “Yes, that is stupid.”

“Wait, what did I miss?” Beth Anne asked, looking back and forth between them.

After which Carly had been forced to tell the same fib to Beth Anne that she’d told Dana a few days earlier. And then they’d both lectured her on being a stick in the mud, and Dana had said, “How could you not want to go out with him?” and “You are baking pies this year, if I have to stand over you with one of your scary woodworking tools to make it happen. And I hope he does bid for your pie so you’re forced to spend a little time with the guy and give him a chance.”

Then, of course, Beth Anne had had to chime in with, “Really, Carly, don’t take this the wrong way, but we worry about you.” Never dating, she meant. They’d had this conversation before.

Finally, she’d just agreed to enter the stupid contest to shut them up and end the discussion.

And actually, she hadn’t seen Jake since that night she’d nearly run right into him on the street. God, the way he’d been standing there staring up at her window . . . Something about it had nearly made her heart stop when she’d come upon him like that in the dark. And when he’d turned to her that very moment, his eyes had sparkled beneath the streetlight.

But maybe he’d finally gotten the message and would leave her alone now.

Damn, she wished that little sidewalk meeting had never happened. Well, she wished none of this had ever happened—she wished she’d found someone else to have sex with that night, or that Jake had never moved here, or that even if he had moved here that he hadn’t recognized her.

But the fresher problem was: Before she’d found him staring up at her apartment, she’d been angry with him—yet ever since . . . oh hell, those sparkling eyes of his had heated her up inside. And the mere memory of the moment turned her on, every time he came to mind, even despite the horrible fears she still suffered about him.

And—oh God, it was just plain difficult to face him. In the beginning, the shock had been the problem, and of course the fear. But by that night, she’d graduated beyond the surprise and worry to stark embarrassment. How could she ever see him anywhere in town without knowing he was recalling all the dirty, dirty things she’d done with him and Colt? How could visions of those obscene acts—which had excited her so much then and horrified her so much now—not pop into his head every time he saw her, or even passed by her shop or heard her name? What on earth must he think of her? And why had he been so intent on talking to her after she’d asked him to leave her alone?

Of course, maybe she’d handled all this the wrong way. Maybe if she’d just come clean, just talked to him in the first place and asked him, from one imperfect human being to another, to please never tell anyone, maybe that would have been smarter—maybe it would have given him whatever it was he was seeking from her now. But the trouble with that was—the very idea of having an actual conversation with him about it made her want to hide, bury her head in the sand. It wasn’t only him she didn’t want to face—she didn’t want to have to face herself, either. She didn’t want to face the reality of the things she’d done in the dark of night and then tucked away so neatly along with her sexy lingerie. She didn’t want to have to admit, out loud, that any of it had ever happened.

Now here she was at the Fourth of July festival and Officer Lockhart was bound to be here somewhere—if not yet, then later. But maybe he wouldn’t even be present for the pie auction on Main Street, shut down to traffic for the day. Maybe, in fact, she’d become completely paranoid about this.

Yet how could she not be? It still felt as if he held her entire fate in his hands.

Stepping away from the pie booth as other ladies handed over their entries, she glanced around at the people milling about. At the red, white, and blue streamers draped overhead, crossing the street from one telephone pole to another. At smiling faces, at well-tended flower boxes lining windows, at tidy storefronts and T-shirts sporting the American flag. Life in this little town was all she knew. Being loved and respected by the good people of Turnbridge mattered to her, deeply. If Jake Lockhart took that away, if he even tarnished it, her life would never be the same.

When a hand closed over her arm, she flinched, but looking over, found only Dana. Thank God. “It’s almost Hank’s turn in the dunking booth at the fire station—let’s go watch,” she said with a smile.

Carly smiled back, or tried to anyway, and let her friend lead her in that direction.

But she kept her eyes open for the new town policeman at every turn—and felt a little more thankful, and a little more relieved, with each passing minute she didn’t see him.

Of course, she didn’t exactly look like a girl who would invite two guys she’d just met at a bar to have raunchy sex, either.

She stood with another woman—a pregnant redhead—and a big guy who he’d bet was the redhead’s husband. A large crowd had gathered in front of the pie stand—Tommy had told him the pie contest and auction was the biggest draw of the day until the fireworks after dark. Tom had also explained how the auction worked, adding, “So I gotta pay attention when they sell Tina’s apple pie. If I don’t buy it, I’m a dead man. Last year, she had to eat a slice with Barlow Jones—he’s that old geezer you see driving up and down Main in that yellow Cadillac. He’s eighty if he’s a day, he’s always on the make for women less than half his age, and Tina says he even smells weird, too.”

Jake just laughed, then listened as an older lady announced the winners of the contest. Third place went to Julie Marie somebody, who looked smug and put out as she approached the stand to take her white ribbon. Second went to Beth Anne somebody, who actually squealed a little when her name was called and ran up to snatch the red ribbon from the emcee lady’s hand. “Beth Anne owns the bakery,” Tommy told him.

“And first place, for the fourth year in a row,” the woman said, smiling with pride, “goes to our dear Carly Winters for her scrum-dilly-icious chocolate cream pie.”

A few people in the crowd cheered and the rest applauded, all looking genuinely pleased for Carly. Frank Schubert was right—people loved her. Jake just couldn’t quite figure out why, since she had yet to be anything other than rude to him. Carly appeared gracious and even a bit shy as she wove her way through the crowd to accept the blue ribbon, and the woman squeezed both Carly’s hands in hers—one more show of affection for the hometown girl.

As she took her place back with her friends, the woman with the microphone said, “Thank you to all the ladies who entered this year. And now we all know what comes next—our annual pie auction! Proceeds go to the Turnbridge Festival Committee, so be generous, folks, so we can keep having all our wonderful events each year.” Then a man standing behind her passed her a card to read as he held up a pie for the crowd. “First up, we have this delicious apple pie baked by Tina Gwynn.”

Jake elbowed Tommy. “You’re up, dude.”

In response, Tommy started to bid, but hesitated, and Jake sensed him trying to choose an appropriate amount that wouldn’t offend his wife but also wouldn’t break his bank. By the time he was ready, an old man yelled out, “Seven dollars,” and Tommy growled under his breath, letting Jake know it was the old guy in the Caddy.

“Ten!” Tommy called.

Four bids later, Tommy was at twenty dollars and looked to Jake like he was starting to sweat. When no other bids came, the lady with the mike finally declared, “Going, going, gone—an apple pie to Officer Gwynn for twenty dollars,” concluding with a big wink since the pie had come from Tommy’s wife.

And Tina herself delivered the pie a minute later, saying, “My hero,” with a pretty smile as she nestled against her husband—who then introduced her to Jake.

As Jake watched them, thinking they fit well together, he began to realize Turnbridge was rife with couples. They were all around him at the festival, and he was pretty sure he was the only single guy at the police department. Back in the city, he’d never thought much about the idea of getting married, settling down, but here, it was clearly the thing to do. Hmm. If I stay here, will I become one of those settled down married guys buying his wife’s pie, going over to Cherry Creek to happily look-not-touch like Tom? Could I be into that?

He didn’t know, but it was way too early to be asking those kinds of questions, anyway—especially since the one single girl in town he knew hated his guts for reasons unknown and clearly had a few problems of her own anyway. And right now he was far more caught up in looking at Carly Winters’ long, lithe legs than in thinking about all the happy couples around him.

But—huh—did Carly want that? Did she see all these cozy couples and wish she was one of them? And why the hell wasn’t she? Was it really possible she—of the infinite blow job—had really broken up with her first love because she didn’t like sex with him? Given where Jake had been with her, he just didn’t see how that was possible. The mysteries around his hot one-night stand just seemed to multiply.

Barlow Jones, Jake soon realized, bid on most of the pies. “Maybe he just likes pie,” he told Tom and Tina with a shrug.

But Tina lowered her chin derisively. “No, what he likes is girls. The old bastard kept trying to touch my leg under the table last year.”

“So, does anybody but me think this is a really outdated tradition?” Jake asked. He’d heard stories about such things back in his grandparents’ time, but not since then.

Tina nodded. “Everybody does—but we all keep entering our pies anyway. For the life of me, I don’t know why.”

“People like traditions,” Tommy said, putting on his voice of great wisdom. “Nobody likes to see one die, especially in a place like this where old-fashioned ideals are appreciated.”

“Next up—” The microphone lady paused. “Oh, look here—it’s our beautiful contest-winning chocolate cream pie by Carly. Now, what do I hear bid for this wonderful pie?”

True to form, Barlow opened with a bid of seven dollars.

On the other side of the crowd, Frank Schubert went to eight, and then the guy standing with Carly and her pregnant friend raised it to ten. “That’s Hank—he’s married to Dana there,” Tom said, pointing and confirming Jake’s assumptions.

Then Barlow took the bid to twelve.

And that’s when Jake yelled out, “I’ll go twenty.”

Tommy and Tina just stared. “What happened to this being an outdated tradition?” Tina asked.

“And what happened to taking my advice?” Tom chimed in.

But Jake couldn’t reply because old Barlow had upped the bid to twenty-two, and Jake decided not to fool around here, so he said, “Thirty-five,” and the crowd gasped.

And he met Carly’s horrified gaze across the way.

Next thing he knew, she was elbowing her buddy Hank, clearly prodding him to bid higher, but he was looking at her like she was crazy, and the pregnant woman between them, for some reason, appeared elated by the whole situation.

“Well then,” the emcee lady finally said, sounding a little sly, “looks like Carly’s winning pie goes to our newest police officer, and for a very fine price, too. You two enjoy yourselves, now.”

Next to him, Tommy murmured, “I’m tellin’ ya, pal, not only are you wasting your time, but you just wasted thirty-five damn dollars, too.”

Jake, his eyebrows raised, drew his gaze from Carly to ask his friend, “What—the pie’s no good?”

And Tommy just laughed. “Oh, I’m sure the pie’s good, but you didn’t pay all that money just for pie.” Then he peered down at his petite wife. “Jake here’s got his eye on Carly.”

Tina’s brow knit as she cast him a look of doubt. “Oh, Jake,” she said, her tone one of pity. “Carly’s a real nice girl and all, but . . . she just doesn’t date.”

“That’s what I hear. But no worries, since I didn’t ask her out on one. All I did was buy a pie.” Then he eased upright from where he’d been leaning against the brick to say, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift just officially ended, so I’m gonna go claim my prize.”

“And it’s exactly what I’d hoped might happen,” Dana chirped cheerfully.

Of course, she couldn’t expect her friends to understand why she wanted nothing to do with him. She could only imagine the looks on their faces if she blurted out the truth right now: I had a very nasty threesome with him and his friend one night, and now I’m mortified every time I see him.

And no wonder her friends wanted her to find a nice guy to date. They didn’t know her other truth, either: I can’t seem to have good sex with anyone except strangers. Maybe if she lived in a big city where everyone didn’t know everyone else’s business, she would have done something like see a therapist by now, to try to figure out the problem and work through it—but as it was, she’d just suffered alone in silence her whole adult life, and now here she was, paying for it.

Jake greeted her with a big, sarcastic, animated grin, saying, “Hi there, Carly”—but only she knew he was actually reminding her he’d once known her by another name. “I bought your pie. It came with everything we need, too,” he said, holding up paper plates and plastic utensils.

Her stomach dropped a little further. Because the sight of him with her pie, right in front of her, brought home the fact that this was real and she had to deal with it. “So I see,” she said. She didn’t return his smile. She tried to look emotionless, in fact, because all her friends were watching, and other townspeople, too, and she felt as if she were on a stage, with everyone taking in her every move, expression, and response.

“And that means you have to eat it with me—right?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Just a slice,” she pointed out.

“Whatever. Come on,” he said, then shoved the forks and knife into his pocket, freeing up one hand, with which he boldly grabbed onto hers and began to walk, tugging her away from her friends. And unfortunately, no one stopped him. Unfortunately, her friends mistakenly thought this was the best thing that had happened to her in years—when it was actually among the worst.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they walked, the crowd around them growing thinner.

He barely bothered to look at her as he said, “I don’t know. Just somewhere away from the festival.”

She sighed and admitted reluctantly, “I know a quiet place.” He’d started up Maple, the street that made a T with Main right next to her building, so she pointed up the slight incline. After a rise of two blocks lay the railroad tracks, running parallel to Main, along with a park bench that faced away from the tracks, toward town.

They walked the whole way hand in hand, and she hated how warm that mere touch made her feel inside, the way she felt it everywhere, even in her panties.

As they reached the tracks, Jake said, “Funny place for a bench.”

“Not really. Look the other way.”

Letting go of her hand, he turned to see that the slope had led them higher than he’d probably realized, providing a bird’s-eye view of the meadows and tree lines beyond the town. Much of the general area was flat, so the view made it worth putting a bench here. “Hmm—nice,” he said, his manner making it clear he was still more interested in her and the whole pie-eating thing than in the landscape.

As they took a seat, Jake did the honors, using the plastic knife provided with the pie to cut a couple of pieces, and she held the plates as he maneuvered the slices onto them. God, this was weird. Weirder than weird. A month ago we’re going at each other like rabid animals—today we’re eating pie two blocks from my home.

Finally, he set the pie plate aside, handed her a fork, and stabbed his own down through the fluffy meringue sprinkled with dark chocolate shavings to the soft pudding mixture below. “I’m sure you’re pissed I bought the pie, but I just want you to talk to me,” he told her. He sounded resolute and a little irate, like a man determined to have his way. And looked like he was getting it, despite her best efforts.

“Why?” she asked. Because the answer could be . . . so many things. She really had no idea why he was bent on talking with her. Did he just want her to own up to what had happened between them? Or was it something more?

“Maybe I don’t like being lied to,” he replied, looking her in the eye. His tone caused her fork to stop in midair. “Maybe I’d feel better if I just knew what that was about.”

She let out a long sigh, thinking, considering her options—few as there were.

God. Maybe it was best to just tell him. To just . . . humiliate herself a little further and spit out the truth.

Here goes. As he finally shoveled a bite of pie into his mouth, she dropped her gaze to her own slice. “All right, you want to know? Here it is. I wanted sex, and there’s no one around here I wanted to do it with, so I went someplace else. Happy now?”

“Good pie,” he said—then raised his eyes from his plate to her. “But no. I’m not happy yet. Why the fake name?”

She took a deep breath, let it back out. More truth. Even if it was embarrassing. She didn’t like admitting this, but the truth was all she had now, and if she gave it to him, maybe he’d finally leave her alone. “It just . . . makes it easier. If I sort of . . . act like someone else.” Her face flushed with warmth at the confession.

He ate another bite and flashed her a matter-of-fact gaze. “For the record, I’d have been just as happy to have sex with the real you.”

The words made her flinch slightly; she blinked as she gathered her thoughts. And she glanced down at herself, feeling . . . plain. Like the small-town girl she was. She thought of that night—how handsome and together he’d seemed, how she’d pegged him as a pilot. He might not have been a pilot, but he’d felt like someone who was completely out of her league in real life, a guy who could get any girl he wanted. So she wasn’t sure she believed him. “I’m not exactly as alluring as Desiree,” she pointed out.

“You’re just as pretty,” he told her without missing a beat, still seeming serious and annoyed. “Maybe not as nice—the jury’s still out on that one. But damn, you’re nothing if not a woman of mystery, and trust me, that lures me more than I want it to.” After another forkful of pie, he said, “Where’d you get the name?”

Crap. Even before she answered, another hot blush climbed her cheeks. “It’s . . . desire, with an e added on. I guess I thought it sounded exotic, foreign or something, not so . . . small town.”

“And why couldn’t you tell me all this before now, the other times I tried to talk to you? Why did it cost me thirty-five dollars to make you be civil to me?” He glanced back to his plate again. “Although I’ll admit this is damn excellent pie.”

Carly released yet another sigh, thinking back, wondering why he couldn’t figure this part out himself, why he had to make her say it out loud. “The first time I saw you here, in Schubert’s, I was too shocked. Mortified, actually. Horrified. I’ve been living in fear ever since that you’ll tell everybody and ruin my life.”

“Why would I want to ruin your life?”

“Because I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that what you know about me is a pretty juicy secret, and because guys are . . .”

“Dogs? Yeah, a lot of the time we are. But I wouldn’t do that to you, no matter how snotty you are to me.”

Wow—that was a relief. A big one.

But that hadn’t been the only problem. “And even now, it’s . . . hard to face you. It’s hard to know you live here, for God’s sake, and that I have to see you on a regular basis.”

He looked truly perplexed, giving his head a short shake. “Why?”

She let out an irritated breath. “My God—think about it! Think about that night.” But—oh hell—she wished she hadn’t said that, since now they were both thinking about it. How wanton she’d been—craving those two rock-hard erections like they were sustenance, like they were giving her life. She’d never been more brazen. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”

“In what regard?” he asked calmly, but his voice came a little deeper, and she knew he was remembering how dirty she’d been, too—and maybe it was even exciting him a little.

She swallowed around the lump now swelling in her throat. Christ, this was horrible to talk about. And God, how she wished she could make it all go away. “Morally,” she told him, her voice coming too soft, like a sinner confessing in church.

He just looked at her for a minute, and she felt it all—the lust, the sin, the regret. Until he said, “Who am I to judge, honey? I was there, too.”

“But I was the one who . . .” Oh damn, her voice was getting shaky. She’d had to bring this up, hadn’t she? “The one who . . . suggested it, and who was with . . . you know . . . two people of the opposite sex.” By the time she managed that part, it was getting hard to breathe.

“The truth is,” Jake said, his eyes a little kinder now, for the first time, “I thought you were amazing.”

Carly just blinked, not sure what to think, how to take it.

“You were so damn smooth, confident. Not a girl who cared what I thought of her morally, either,” he pointed out.

“Well, that was Desiree,” she explained. “Not me.”

His brow knit. “So it’s not just a name? You’re like . . . a whole different person?”

God, he thought she was weird. And she probably was. She swallowed, hard.

“Something like that,” she managed. “When you grow up in a small town and everyone has this set idea of who you are, and it’s someone who’s perfect . . . it’s just hard to let anything else out. Anything . . . sexual, I mean. Until I got the idea of making myself look different. And then came the name.” God, her biggest secret, being spilled between them on a park bench as simply as if they were discussing the weather. No one else knew this stuff—no one. Lord. Now, not only did she have sex with strangers—she told them her deepest secrets, too.

“So this wasn’t the first time you’ve done it,” he said.

“No.” Another shameful admission. And none of his business really, yet she’d gotten used to answering him now and the response had just come out. “But it was the only time I was with more than one guy,” she said. It seemed an important distinction to her.

“I’m still not judging you, by the way.”

“People here . . . they would judge me.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“They’re good people, but . . . well, that’s the problem here, I suppose—they’re good people. With a pretty particular sense of right and wrong.”

He just nodded, then gave her a sideways glance. “In fairness, since you’re telling me stuff, I feel like I should tell you something, too. So—just so you know—that night was . . . the best sex of my life.”

“Really?” The fact was, she knew she was good. Guys told her. Frequently. But still . . . she figured someone’s best came . . . not with a stranger.

He gave a firm nod, his eyes still meeting hers, and she sensed them both remembering again. More of it. And not the parts with Colt. No, now it was the parts with just the two of them rolling hot and heavy through their minds. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she just did. Images bit at her. How she’d ridden him on the bed. The way he’d held her down and she’d liked it. The spanking she’d demanded.

Embarrassed even more now, she bit her lip, lowered her gaze, finally forked a bite of her pie into her mouth . It was getting warm, not as good to her as when it was fresh and cool. Still, she chewed the crust, swallowed, and ate another bite—to pass the time, to keep herself busy with something besides memories and awkwardness.

That’s when his hand rose, when his fingertip moved to the corner of her mouth. “You have a little . . .” She drew back slightly as his touch came, gentle but direct, until she realized—just as he held it up to show her—that he was wiping a little blob of chocolate filling away.

God, why did looking at the gooey chocolate pudding on his finger feel . . . sexy? Why on earth was it turning her warmer than she already was?

When he moved it to her lips, though, she knew. It was sexy because she wanted to suck the chocolate off of it.

Still, she hesitated. When she was Desiree, she knew exactly what she was doing—but when she was Carly, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to . . . be sexy.

Yet when he applied just a hint of pressure to her lips, her chest went hollow, achy, and she felt herself parting them, letting him slip his finger inside.

Oh Lord. The very act of something, a piece of him, sliding slickly into her mouth ignited familiar stirrings. Instinctively, she closed her lips around it, gingerly used her tongue, tasted the sweet pudding. Then she sucked it away. Mmm, God. Her breasts tingled. And the spot between her legs spasmed. Just from that.

He began to draw his finger out—but then he brought it back, sliding in again, and she let him, and she would have sworn it got hotter outside. Their gazes stayed locked the whole time and her stomach contracted as he watched her. Nervousness warred with arousal inside her and she could stave off neither.

And when finally he extracted his warm, sticky finger all the way, he said to her, low and deep, “No one’s ever sucked my cock as good as you did, honey.”

The words jarred her, yanked her out of whatever slow sense of seduction she’d been experiencing.

And before she could weigh it, she followed her next instinct: She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. Because no one had ever said such a thing to her! Not her, Carly. Not here, in Turnbridge. It was unthinkable.

Fresh heat—this time from simple anxiety—warmed her skin as Jake lifted a hand to his cheek and glared at her, clearly as stunned by her actions as she was. “What the hell?”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” she snapped, tense, defensive.

He lowered his chin, pinned her in place with those sparkling blue eyes. “You didn’t seem to mind it that night. You seemed to like it. You seemed pretty good at it yourself.”

She remained silent, horrified all over again, then shook her head. “Don’t you get it? I’m not her.”

“Her?”

Had he already forgotten everything she’d just so painfully admitted to him? “Desiree. I’m not that person.”

He was back to looking angry again. “So let me get this straight. Desiree is hot and sexy, and Carly is a bitch?”

She gasped. No one had ever called her a bitch, either. Now fresh anger rose inside her, too.

“Well, you just hit me, damn it!” he reminded her. “Right when I thought we were starting to get along.”

Get along. God, what had she been thinking? She couldn’t get along with him. She couldn’t have any sort of relationship with him, let alone one that had him putting his finger in her mouth, making her as wet in her panties as he had the first time they’d met.

So she pushed to her feet, incensed, and more than ready to end this. “I liked you better in Traverse City,” she told him.

Finally letting his hand drop from his cheek—notably pink now in the bright sunlight—he peered up at her, his eyes turning darker than usual. “I feel the same way about you, trust me.”

“Go to hell,” she said, then turned to march away. Down Maple Street. Back toward the festival. And her real life. Toward the people who knew her, loved her, got her.

But then, no one really got her. No one in the world understood. Hell, if she was honest with herself, not even she understood.

All she knew was that Jake Lockhart was possibly the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Because he threatened everything she knew about herself. And he was making her look too damn hard at all of it. And because—goddamn it—even now, trudging away from him with her heart beating too fast, she ached for his touch, on her breasts, between her thighs.

And there for a moment, he’d made her feel like Desiree. Dirty, and happy to be that way. Ready to wallow in it. He suddenly made the line between Carly and Desiree appear frighteningly thin.

Even as she walked away, she wasn’t sure which side of that line she was on right now.

Carly hated him and thought he was a pig for what he’d said.

And Desiree wanted to drop to her knees and do it to him all over again.