Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway

like the lemon cake.”

      He grinned. “I recall your aversion to citrus paired with sweets.”

      It took effort to pretend that didn’t stab. He remembered? “That’s right. No lemon bars. No key lime tarts.”

      “But you indulged my love of peach pie.”

      Mac’s body froze. Had he really said that? Peach pie? Um, sexual innuendo, much?

      But before she could think of how to respond, he pulled something out of one of his many coat pockets and set it on the counter. The item was about the size of a large baked potato. Which turned out to be a very weird first impression of the actual object.

      Her gaze glued to it, she moved forward, unable to stifle her curiosity.

      “It’s a Russian nesting doll.”

      Her fingertip stroked the smooth surface. More than that, it was a work of art. On the carved hourglass shape, a woman’s face and figure decorated the pale wood. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, she was delicate and so, so lovely.

      “I watched the artist paint her,” Zan said. He cleared his throat. “She, uh, makes them by request.”

      Her head shot up. It didn’t take a genius to realize the rendered woman had her coloring...even, perhaps, her features. Mac put her hands behind her back. “It’s wonderful.”

      His mouth quirked. “I thought so.” Then he picked it up and twisted.

      A bleat of protest escaped her mouth.

      He laughed. “Watch.”

      It was a work of moments. Inside, were five other figurines, each one opening to reveal a smaller figure, similarly painted, until the smallest was revealed, the size of a thimble.

      Mac stared at them, noting that each had the same features and each wore a beautiful blue gown, highlighted with what looked like gold leaf. So exquisite. Inhaling a breath, she shifted her gaze to Zan again. “For me? Really?”

      One of his long fingers brushed the painted hair of the largest of the dolls and his gaze tracked the stroke. “Yeah. I’ll miss her, though. She’s been with me a long time.”

      Like the long time he’d been gone. Ignoring the hot pressure behind her eyes, she watched him renest the dolls into one.

      Then he cradled it in his hands like a kitten, bringing it close to his face. “We had many the long, dark-night conversations, didn’t we, girl?” he asked, addressing the piece.

      Oh, man. That burn intensified behind Mac’s eyes and she felt a traitorous twinge in her chest. On long dark nights, had he needed a friend? During those lonely hours, had he been talking to a surrogate for her?

      She curled her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching out to him. You need to keep your distance, she reminded herself. You need to keep up your guard.

      But when he offered the object to Mac, she couldn’t help but lean closer to take it from him. As her fingers neared, he lifted it just out of reach. “Now, what am I going to get in return for this little pretty?” he asked with a roguish glint in his eye.

      It was charming as heck, so the look she sent him was stern. “A simple ‘thank you’ won’t do?”

      “Surely you can do better than that. Think of the miles I’ve traveled to bring her to you. The terrain I’ve overcome! The dangers I’ve braved!”

      “The bullshit you’ve dished out along the way,” she said drily.

      His lips twitched. It drew her attention, reminding her of kisses, hours of them, that mouth on hers, taking her to new and heated places. That mouth, exploring new and heated places.

      Peach pie. She felt a blush rush up her neck and cursed the persistent memories.

      “I think you’ve turned into a cruel and cold woman,” Zan declared.

      She latched on to that. “And don’t you forget it.”

      “But still,” he said, in that teasing tone, “one small kiss doesn’t seem too much to ask.” His fingertip tapped the edge of his jaw. “And then I’ll be on my way.”

      And then she’d be safe from him, her space once more her own. And yet... “Zan...”

      He wiggled the doll back and forth. “Please?” His smile was boyish and friendly. “With sugar on top?”

      “Good God,” she muttered but found herself giving in to his ridiculous request. Bellying up to the counter, she closed the gap between them. Then she fisted her hand in the lapel of his jacket, drew his face close and rose onto her tiptoes. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

      And moved her lips to his cheek.

      At the same instant that he turned his mouth to meet hers.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      WHEN THE DOOR to the lakefront, Mediterranean-style villa swung open, Zan’s gaze dropped to find a smiling, gap-toothed little kid, and Zan’s already good mood bobbed even higher. “You must be Poppy’s boy,” he said. The family resemblance was strong.

      “Mason Walker. Almost Mason Walker Hamilton.” The boy talked as if he was fifteen instead of five or so. “I’m a best man.”

      “Yep,” Zan agreed. “You strike me as a good kind of guy.”

      “He means he’s my best man...when I marry Poppy.” A dark-haired grown person strode up behind the kid and held out his hand. “Ryan Hamilton.”

      “Zan Elliott.” He cocked his head, taking in the other man’s famous face as he passed him a bottle of wine. “I heard it through the grapevine, but it’s hard to believe Poppy Walker snagged one of Hollywood’s most entrenched bachelors.”

      “Has me wrapped around her little finger.” He looked cheerful about it.

      Then Poppy herself crowded into the doorway, and Zan was reminded of how wrapped around her finger he used to be. “Hah,” she said to Ryan. “You knew I was behind you when you said that.”

      “Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

      She sent her fiancé an indulgent look, then grabbed Zan’s arm and tugged him into the foyer. “Come in, it’s cold out there.” His hands were in her small ones as she took a long look at him. Her brilliant smile was as warm as the hug that ensued after.

      “I’m so glad you could come to dinner,” she said against his chest, squeezing hard.

      He returned the embrace, charmed by her all over again. “Not mad that I practically invited myself?”

      “Practically?” She leaned back and grinned at him. “You did invite yourself.”

      A big dog pushed between them. “Who’s this?” he asked.

      Mason ran his hand over the canine’s big head. “Our dog, Grimm.”

      “So domesticated, Pop,” Zan said, his gaze lingering on her. When he’d left she’d been a teenager, coltish and sweet as candy. “It looks good on you. Beautiful, actually.”

      Ryan’s brows rose. “Uh-oh. Do I have to take you out?”

      “Oh, you,” she said to her man, then grabbed Zan’s hand again and began towing him forward. “Though I did have a wild crush on him when I was a girl.”

      “You did?” he asked, as she pushed him onto a stool drawn up to the granite island in a spacious kitchen with views of the lake. “How come I didn’t see that?”

      “Because you only had eyes for Mac, of course.”

      What could he say? But he was glad he was spared from answering when Ryan pressed a cold bottle