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would go wild over a shot of you dressed like that.”
    “Like this?” She looked down in confusion. “In my PJs?”
    Jake’s hands ached to know if she felt as soft as she looked.
    Skimming his knuckles over her neck and slipping his hands around her waist were harmless pleasures he could indulge in.
    And if he did happen to overstep, she’d probably cream him with the raspberry meringue roulade.
    He put his hands on her shoulders and slid them slowly down to her wrists, his callused fingers catching on the impossibly soft fabric of her fleecy jacket. “I’d say this is more of a fancy dress costume than pajamas. Dispose of the starchy white apron”—he reached behind her to undo the ties—“and you’re dressed as a baby chick.”
    She gasped and he used the distraction to slip her apron off.
    “No need to feel embarrassed. As far as chicken suits go, this is a good one.” His fingers toyed with one of the tiny pom-poms that served as buttons, then slipped down to circle the one below.
    “It’s soft. It has rainbow plumage in a range of pastel colors.”
    “Allow me to predict another headline.” She batted his hand away. “Jake Olsen’s penchant for farm animals.”
    He shook his head and released her hair from its bouncy ponytail. “They never print the truth, and I’ve recently discovered I have a thing for chickens, one in particular.”
    She winced, then spoke with quiet dignity. “If you’ve exploded into someone’s life, allowed their personal details to be randomly dispersed, and linked their name to yours in a way that makes them look like a pathetic desperado, then you might want to avoid poking fun at something that brings them a small measure of comfort.”
    Her hands shook a little as she discarded her jacket, pajama top, and fluffy socks. “There,” she said. Her color was high and her breathing agitated as she stood before him in a clingy white tank top, low-rise pajama pants, and bare feet. Her straight dark hair spilled over her shoulders. “No fluff or fleece or feathers. Nothing but cotton. Does that suit you better?”
    Her tank top was three sizes too small for public viewing, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. The gap between her top and pants showed an enticing strip of milky white skin that was bound to be softer and smoother than anything she’d tossed aside. Did it suit him better? Hell no.
    His crazy need to drop to his knees and skim his lips across her midriff was so powerful he cursed. Looking up at her unfettered breasts from that angle would mean touching for sure. Her top would be easy to push up, and those pants with their elasticized waist would slide all the way down to her ankles with a single tug.
    Snatching her starchy apron off the counter, he tossed it at her and hoped she’d have the sense to put it on. He turned away, tossing a bored comment over his shoulder to disguise his interest.
    “Don’t quit your day job, Beth. You don’t have the moves to be a stripper.”
    “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m trying to be sexy.”
    He spun so fast, the room whirled around him. She thought she had to try to be sexy?
    “Do me one favor. Hold that thought.” He grabbed her hand and strode toward the door, then marched her all the way to the bathroom at breakneck speed. The shaving mirror was next to useless. “Tell me you have a bigger mirror. Full-length?”
    She frowned. “Sure. In the hall closet.”
    His instincts warned that she’d bolt as soon as got a look at herself, so he took precautions once they’d arrived at the closet.
    “Face me.”
    “Quit mucking about, Jake. I’ve got food everywhere that needs to be put away.”
    “The sooner you comply—”
    She leapt onto his feet, her body dangerously close to his as her hands clasped fistfuls of his shirt for balance.
    “Like this?”
    He sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding to brush against hers as his hand flattened between her shoulder blades and