From the Inside Flap
She raised the tip of her chef's knife and pointed it at his nose. "Keep your hands to yourself, Westlake."
His gaze flared hot. "What if I don't want to?" He took two slow steps sideways, two steps closer to her. "What if I'm tired of playing your game of 'there's nothing going on here.'"
The knife in her hand swiveled to follow his cat-like movements. "I don't play games. And FYI there is nothing going on here. Nothing I'm interested in pursuing, anyway."
Another step and he rounded the corner, crowding her backward until her butt hit the counter. He rescued the knife from her shaking fingers, laid it on the chopping board, and left his hand resting there, effectively trapping her.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," he murmured.
She shoved a hand against West's chest to stop him coming closer, but all that achieved was runaway tingles up her arm from the hard, hot muscles beneath his shirt. He leaned into her fingers and the rapid bump of his heartbeat throbbed against her palm. Close enough to see her own reflection in West's eyes, she froze when his pupils shrunk to tiny dots.
His nose twitched. "Something's burning."
Yeah, something was burning, all right. One more touch, one more second of him looking like he planned to do her on the kitchen counter and she would either catch fire or do something absurd like kiss him again.