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flutter went through Polly. She’d never even seen one of the Stone brothers, much less met any of them.
    “Mr. Stone often stops by to check on our progress,” Henry explained, “and you’d better believe we hear about it if something isn’t up to speed. Not that that happens often,” he hastened to add.
    The two chefs hurried to make sure their stations were in order, their aprons tied, and caps firmly in place. Anticipation heightened the air. Polly found it rather thrilling. The Stone brothers were legendary, and it felt like everyone was waiting for a rock star to arrive.
    Henry started explaining the process of making taffy. Polly scribbled notes about water and glucose, watching out of the corner of her eye as the far door opened.
    A tall, dark-haired man clad in a beautifully tailored navy suit and tie strode into the kitchen, a leather binder in one hand. Aside from his strikingly handsome appearance, he had an aura of utter control and self-confidence that made her heart leap in a way that it only had once before.
    Polly froze.
    No way.
    No. Freaking. Way.
    Her breath shortened. The excitement in the room intensified. All the women stilled with awe and admiration at the sight of the intimidating Mr. Stone.
    Or, as Polly had called him, Mr. Hottie.

THIS COULDN’T BE HAPPENING. TWO days ago, Polly had not attempted to drunkenly seduce the man who would prove to be the CEO of Sugar Rush. She had not vomited all over his designer Ferragamos or whatever kind of shoes they were. She most certainly had not begged him to fuck her on the feather pillows of his four-poster bed.
    Except that she had.
    Oh, mother of all that was holy. She wanted to die.
    She tried to hide behind Cora and prayed to every god of every religion since the beginning of time that Mr. Luke Stone would not find it necessary to stop and greet her tour group.
    Henry was still rambling on about taffy, but Polly had stopped listening. She watched CEO Stone. He took his time walking around the kitchen, stopping to speak to the chefs and examine the contents of two large mixers. His expression was inscrutable, his eyes sharp, his bearing controlled, as if he not only expected deference, but demanded it. He reminded her vaguely of a king who had deigned to visit the peasants.
    Then he started toward her tour group.
    She glanced at the clock. Could she somehow manage to fake a sudden illness?
    “Hello, Mr. Stone.” A flash of nervousness crossed Henry’s face as he extended a hand. “These are Gordon Andrews’s Confectionary Technology students from Hartford Community College in Rainsville.”
    “Ah.” Luke Stone’s dark gaze swept over the group. “I like people who are interested in the science of sweet things.”
    A few of the girls giggled.
    Polly’s heart raced wildly. She tried to duck farther into the group, keeping her head bent so low her chin smashed into her neck.
    Go away, Mr. Hottie. Just go away. Nothing to see here.
    “Why don’t you introduce yourselves?” Mr. Stone asked. “I’d be interested to know your culinary ambitions.”
    Polly had to get out of there. She maneuvered backward a few steps, figuring she could dart from the back of the group and make a run for it before anyone noticed she was missing. Her back hit the wall of Gary, a two-hundred-pound soda pop aficionado who was channeling his passion into fizzy candy.
    She muttered an apology and tried to scoot around him, but he was standing against the blending table and blocking her emergency exit route.
    “Hey, Gary,” Polly whispered, poking him gently with her pen. “Could you scoot over just a—”
    “Why don’t you go first, miss?” Luke Stone’s voice swept over her like a hot breeze.
    She startled, feeling his gaze land on her with the precision of an arrow. Exactly the way she’d felt it at the Troll’s House. Right before she’d—
    Okay. She’d put herself out there the other night because she hadn’t wanted to hide out in a basement any