Page 47 of Make Mine Sweet
“With the softest fur and the stinkiest breath.” She holds up her hands. “August’s words, not mine.”
“Dutch isn’t skilled with a toothbrush yet.”
Wren flashes a broad smile. “I have some work to get to in the back, but it’s great to meet you, Ian.”
With one last pointed look at me, she slips through the swinging door, leaving us alone. He just watches me, gaze so intent I have to fight to remind myself I’m trying to be normal. Polite. Neighborly.
Swooning isn’t circled on that Venn diagram.
“Is this your cheat day?” I ask.
That almost-smile returns to his face. “Something like that.”
“You got your hair cut.” Obvious, but worthy of note.
“It was time.” He rakes his fingers through it again, pulling it back until my fingers itch to do the same.
If he was Dude Thor before, now he’s Bucky Barnes inCivil War:mysterious and possibly dangerous, but high-key gorgeous. Apparently, Marvel movies are my only reference for men’s haircuts.
“Does it look okay?”
He’s asking me? The woman who stared open-mouthed at himagainnot five minutes ago?
“It looks great.” There. Honest without beingtoohonest. What any good neighbor would say.
The teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t feel neighborly in the slightest. “I didn’t want to go too short and ruin the pirate look.”
I can’t help my laughter or the blush that surely pops onto my cheeks. “It still works.”
“Good.”
He looks over the pies as though that one word of praise didn’t skate across my skin like a caress.
Which is wildly inappropriate. I don’t think like this at work. Or much at all, if I’m being honest, but definitely not at work.
“Are you in the mood for anything in particular today?”
His gaze never leaves the desserts. “What’s your favorite flavor in here?”
“Today, I’d say strawberry-rhubarb. It’s the perfect blend of sweet and tart. All the fruit is locally sourced.”
“I’ll take a slice of that. And one of each of the cupcake flavors.”
I struggle to contain my happy smile. People order cupcakes every day, but a request has never made me light up like a glow stick quite like this. I set up the two paper boxes and get out one of the strawberry-rhubarb pies to slice.
“I told you I’d bring you cupcakes,” I tell him as I press the pie slicer through the crust. “I’ll give you these on the house.”
“No.”
That sharp word stops me mid-slice. I look up to find the vertical line between his furrowed brows has returned. Maybe neither of us is doing great at this fresh start. But as I watch, the line smooths out and his expression relaxes. He doesn’t quite smile, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to swat an irritating fly, either.
“I want to pay for these. You can bring me some another day. If you want.”
I’m about to argue that these cupcakes were supposed to be part of my apology package, but I realize that’s the point. He doesn’t want me bringing him something out of a sense of obligation or guilt. But the fact that he’s leaving the door open fornon-apology cupcakes another day? My hopeful little heart warms.
I tilt my head as I box up his order. “Maybe I’ll bring you tester flavors some time to get your opinion. Make sure my experimental combinations don’t taste like sawdust and misery.”
“I will gladly be your guinea pig. But I doubt anything you make could taste anything other than decadent.”
