Her shoulders lowered in defeat. “I don’t know. I guess because I stopped thinking and just…wanted to know what it would be like.”
“To kiss me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not what it would be like. That was me in shock.” He took another step, backing her into the side of a van parked next to the bus. He braced a hand beside her shoulder, and his face lowered close to hers, making her breath quicken. “So if you really want to know, I could show you exactly what it would be like. When I’m trying. When I know it’s okay to want you.”
Heat rushed up her neck. “Wes…”
“Tell me not to kiss you, Rebecca. To fuck off. Tell me that tonight isn’t a date and that you just wanted to give me money for the school. Or that you want a new friend. Tell me I’m not your type.”
She closed her eyes, a tremor working its way through her body and hot, liquid want blooming low. “You’re not my type.”
Wes hissed out a breath.
But before he could push away, she opened her eyes and grabbed his shirt. “That wasn’t a no.”
Heat and something dangerous flared in his eyes, some resistance breaking. His big hand slipped behind her to cup her head, and his mouth came down on hers in a rush. Every cell in her body came alive at the touch of his lips. And this time there was no hesitation, no confusion. He held her where he wanted, and the tip of his tongue teased the seam of her mouth, making sensual promises she had no doubt he could keep. She parted her lips, needing it all, and melted when his tongue stroked against hers. He tasted like the baklava they’d had for dessert, of honey and pistachios and sin. She wanted to gorge on him.
Some needy sound slipped out of her, one that showed all her cards, and his other hand slid to her hip. He pulled her against him and let her feel exactly what this was doing to him, the utter maleness of him growing hard and heavy against her.
Christ. Her sex clenched, ready to throw a ticker tape parade welcoming him to the neighborhood. She gripped his shirt hard, afraid her bad knee would give out beneath her. This was Wesley Garrett, the confident chef in those magazine photos, the man who took risks and worried about the consequences later, the man who could undo her with one hot kiss.
And she didn’t know who the hell she was right now. Because it certainly wasn’t Rebecca Lindt, responsible professional who would never make out with a sexy tattooed chef in a used car lot, who would have more self-control than to be imagining routes to the nearest hotel.
“The one I was telling you about is right over here. It’s… What in the world?”
The unfamiliar voice broke through the erotic fog in her mind, and Wes made a strangled sound. They quickly broke away from the kiss, both turning their heads toward the noise.
An older man with wrinkled brown skin—presumably Dev’s uncle based on the last name on his shirt—was scowling at them while the two men behind him were holding hands and grinning at them.
“Um, Mr. Madan, I… How are you?” Wes said, smoothing down the front of his shirt where Rebecca had left it a crinkled mess.
“Wesley, what is going on?”
Wes crooked a thumb toward Adele. “Just…shopping.”
The older man frowned, his thick, black brows lowering. “That is not what shopping looks like. This is not a place to…” He waved a hand. “Do these things.”
One of the guys behind Dev’s uncle, the hipster of the couple, laughed under his breath. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Wes cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mr. Madan. I thought you were closed. We were shopping, and then we were…overcome. Your place is, uh, very romantic.”
The man huffed. “Romantic. You are lucky you are Devin’s friend.” He pointed a bony finger at Wes. “But no more sneaking in. If you want to see something after hours, you make an appointment. This is my place of business, and I have customers who want to purchase this bus. Now, leave, please, so I can do my job.”
Wes’s face paled. “They want to buy Adele?”
One of the guys—the broader, more bearded one—smiled. “Mr. Madan has convinced us that a bus will be perfect for the gourmet barbecue truck we want to open. It will give us the space we need.”
“But…” Wes didn’t finish the sentence.
Rebecca stepped up next to Wes, putting a hand on his shoulder because he looked ready to pass out. Another lost opportunity. More freaking barbecue. “But Wes is interested in the bus.”
Mr. Madan leveled Wes with a look. “Wesley, if you are ready to purchase, you need to make me an offer.”
Wes inhaled a deep breath, a flat look descending over his features—a mask of hard indifference. “I can’t make an offer.” He glanced at the couple, his jaw tight. “Good luck with your new business.”
Hipster guy smiled. “Thanks, man.”