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I pout.

It’s just after dinnertime; we ate, then I got dressed for this meeting he set up with some “very important” potential clients. But then I fell asleep on his bed, fully clothed.

After he showed up at my place last night and we had that big, emotional talk, he brought me back here and we spent the night making love. I didn’t get nearly enough sleep. But then we spent the morning sleeping in, and having sex all over again.

Then again in the shower.

Then he was on the phone making secret plans, while I hustled in the kitchen, stressing over the array of baking samples he told me I suddenly needed to make—samples which he had whisked away while we ate dinner, to be set up by whoever, wherever, for this mysterious client presentation.

Since it’s Christmas Eve, I really have to wonder what kind of client would want to meet us now, and if this is all some trick.

But Harlan won’t tell me a thing.

I can only hope that whoever is in charge of setting up my pretties gets all my instructions right. I’m used to presenting my baking to clients myself, whether in person or online, and fussing over every detail. All this mystery is killing me.

“Why can’t you just tell me who we’re meeting?” I complain as I slip into my shoes. “It would make it so much less stressful for me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Harlan’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“You look like your brother Damian when you do that,” I inform him.

He frowns, then slides his hand up my skirt—and gently squeezes between my legs. “Don’t stress, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Oh my god, your hand is so warm.” I almost melt back onto the bed as he kisses my neck, his slight stubble making me shiver.

“I fucking love it when you’re all sleepy and soft…” He groans against my skin, squeezing again.

I moan.

I almost think he’s going to take me down. He’s been insatiable today. Ever since he asked me to move in last night, it’s felt different between us. More solid. Real.

Something to hold onto.

I’ve been picturing a future with both of us in it, and our little family around us.

I’ve been letting hope expand in my chest like a balloon, lifting me up.

“Come on, baby,” he purrs. “You can do this.” He scoops an arm around my lower back and propels me toward the door as I groan in protest. “This could be the meeting of your life.”

“Are we getting Quinn’s Cakes into Whole Foods?” I quip. “Trader Joe’s? Walmart?”

“I’m not sure why you think that’s so funny, but no.”

“I half thought maybe you were getting me the wedding cake gig for Jameson’s wedding after all,” I tell him suspiciously. “But when you asked for sample cupcakes too, I was thrown.” I made seven different flavors this afternoon, between Mom’s cupcake recipes and my cake samples. It was hard to decide what to focus on when Harlan would literally tell me nothing exceptI need you to make some of your best samples for some VIPs.“I don’t even know if these are potential cake clients, or clients foryourbusiness, or what,” I complain. “You’ve told me nothing.”

“Have I mentioned that you’re super cute when you’re impatient?” he asks as he leads me down the stairs to the foyer, where Manus is waiting.

“Yes,” I grump. “I must be adorable right now.”

We drive into the underground lot beneath the Vance Bayshore resort on Bayshore Drive, mere blocks away from Vance Tower, on the waterfront. I’ve never been here before. The resort isn’t finished yet; it’s undergoing a major renovation and expansion since the Vance family bought the property. So Harlan tells me as we park and get out of the car.

Then he takes my hand and leads me through a fire exit door to the outside, and up a set of concrete steps. We emerge onto a stretch of grass on the northeast side of the resort, facing the harbour and the public Seawall, a gorgeous walkway along the water.

“Um, Harlan? Where the heck are we going?” When we pulled into the resort, I assumed we were meeting these very special potential clients inside. Now that I see the people strolling with dogs and jogging along the Seawall in athleisure wear, I’m worrying I might’ve overdressed for whatever is about to happen. “Are we meeting with these people on a boat or something? Or having a picnic? Should I have brought a swimsuit?”

I wore high heels, which are now sinking into the grass.

Harlan gives me his solid arm and helps me along. He wore a suit, but he always wears a suit. “Patience,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling.