Page 35 of Desserts for Stressed People

“Five years. You?”

“Eight. When I started, there were only twelve other people.”

Considering there were a hundred when I started, that’s quite impressive.

I point at the cheesecake, barely able to stifle a moan. It’s so buttery and sweet. It’s one of those uncooked ones, with tons of heavy cream and sugar. “Wow, this is good.”

“It’s all right,” he says in a flat voice.

My mouth falls open. “All right?”

“Yeah. All right. I make a much better cheesecake. This one’s way too sweet,” he whispers.

A tingle spreads over my cheeks, and I can only hope I’m not turning a deep shade of red. Shane can’t be that much of an asshole if he’s making sure no one can hear him. Or maybe as a baker he knows how sad it is to have your desserts criticized. Either way, it’s cute.

When he notices my stare, he shrugs. “I bake a little.”

He bakes more than a little, and I won’t pretend like I don’t know, nor will I use what he said to Nevaeh to stir up the conversation. Both feel like I’m manipulating him. So I ask something that I truly don’t know. “How did you get into it?”

Licking his lips, he swallows and looks up. “I started when I was thirteen. My grandparents owned a bakery, and they taught me.”

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

He passes a napkin over his lips, and though I can’t say for sure, it looks like he’s doing it to hide a smile. “That’s a good question. People’s favorite desserts tell you a lot about them.”

My brows quirk. “How so?”

“Let me give you an example.” He points his spoon at me. “Would you say Marina’s favorite dessert is a s’more or a macaron?”

I guess I see his point. She’s snooty and obnoxious in most things she does. Chances are that her favorite dessert fits the picture. “So...Can you guess it?” I question, wondering what kind of dessert my personality has earned me.

“Your favorite dessert?”

I shrug. “Anyone’s. If you know someone, can you just tell which dessert they’ll like?”

“I’m not a fortune teller, but I can take an educated guess.”

I beam. “Guess mine, then.”

Our eyes lock, and his lower lip disappears into his mouth. It looks like he’s thinking about it, and I raise my brow in challenge. I know he won’t back down, because I never would. I never do—and I remember his bio on RadaR.

Control freak, overworked, stressed out, and extremely competitive.

“What do I win if I do?”

We’re flirting. I’m pretty sure. Or are we? Shit, I wish Emma was here. I haven’t done anything like this in years, and I’m not sure if this is us playfully flirting or becoming friends. Maybe the only difference between the two is whether he finds me attractive.

I move my hair to the side and stir my coffee. If this is flirting, then what can I say to that? I guess if Emma were here, she’d say something forward, like “a night you won’t forget” or “whatever you want from me.” I’m not Emma, though.

“What do you want?” I ask.

His gaze pierces me as he scoops up some cheesecake and eats it. “I’m not sure. How about I decide what I want once I win?”

“Or I’ll choose what I want once you lose.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

“How much time do you have to guess?”

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