Page 133 of Desserts for Stressed People

I know, but I’m unable to let him go today. And he must read it in my eyes, because he scoops me up, and as I clasp my hands around his nape, he walks through the apartment.

“Fuck,” he groans when his arm hits against the half-assembled furniture that occupies most of the living room. “I hate this bookshelf.”

“I love our apartment,” I whisper, cuddling up against his chest and catching sight of the wine red couch, the Persian carpet, and the boho coffee table. How did I never notice how much this place needed color?

After stopping by the entrance to grab my coat and a set of keys, he proceeds into the elevator.

“I’m not a lightweight, Shane,” I say, kissing his chest. “Your back will hurt.”

“Gee, I’m not a hundred,” he mumbles.

I giggle against his chest as he opens the elevator door and walks to his car, finally setting me in the passenger seat. When he joins my side, we drive.

The city is dark and empty this early—or this late—but I know the route we’re taking like the back of my hand. He’s going to turn right at the bookstore, then we’ll take the second street to the left and continue straight for a while.

As he gently hits the brakes, I hear the rumbling of water pouring down the horses’ mouths. And behind them, home. Well, it isn’t home yet, and it won’t be for another few months. We’ve chosen the tiles and paint colors for the apartment, but now it’s up to the construction company.

“You can check on the progress, if you want.” Shane holds my hand and kisses it as soon as he parks. He knows I’m more than excited about moving.Probablybecause I constantly talk about it, showing him an endless slideshow of things we should do or get for the new place.

Honestly, fifty percent of the reason I’m so excited about moving is that it’ll be easier for him once we do. His routine will be a little less exhausting.

“Really? I’ve been there twice this week. The workers hate me.”

“Do you need me to remind them who’s the boss?”

I assume they know it’s the building owner.

“You’ll love what I have in mind for today,” he says as we walk, and his smile is so wide and filled with child-like excitement, my chest tightens. Shane Hassholm is the best part of my world, and that has only become truer in the last two years.

Stepping through the square, I glance at the girl in the pink dress, but instead of a wall, she’s depicted on a shop window. “Desserts for Stressed People” shines in bright blue letters beneath it. The logo of Shane’s beautiful bakery.

Once the door’s unlocked and the alarm deactivated, Shane kisses my lips and lightly pats my ass. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

Though I should protest and ask if he needs help, I watch him walk away with a grin. He’s been having interviews and trial periods to find an assistant baker, but he hasn’t been lucky so far.

Knowing he won’t accept my useless, sleepy help, I walk to the back, on the small bed he fit there for me, and fall asleep.

* * *

“Good morning again,”are the next words I hear. Shane kisses my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, and before fully waking up, my lips are stretched across my face.

Butter, bread, cocoa, sugar. The mix of it invades my nostrils and makes my stomach gurgle. Even after waking up to it a few times a week for one year, since he opened Desserts for Stressed People, it’s still the best alarm I could ask for. “Hmm. It smells so good.”

Shane fits on top of the blanket, his body firm against me, and hugs me as I open my eyes. “I hope you’re hungry, because I made your favorite dessert.”

“My favorite dessert, huh?” I hide my face against his chest, breathing in a little flour and a whole lot of Shane. Now that he barely wears suits anymore, his chest is even more comfortable. Just a t-shirt and pounds of perfect muscles.

“Your favorite dessert. I’m confident this time.”

What the hell did he come up with this time? I’m pretty much convinced I’ve tried every dessert that’s ever existed by now, but he keeps saying he has lots of tricks up his sleeve he hasn’t used yet.

“You still haven’t told me whatyourfavorite dessert is.”

He cocks his brow. “Really? I thought it was obvious.” His eyes dart to my lips. “You are.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too.”

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