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Marco threw his arms up. “I don’t know! Enticed Dario, who’s practically a zero on the Kinsey scale?—”

“And who’s married,” Andrew said steadily.

But Marco hated this calm act. He wanted Andrew to get worked up, like him. Like he’d been worked up, since the moment he’d turned in the Coffee Beanery and seen how well Andrew had grown up.

“I made myself so fucking clear,” Marco growled.

Andrew set the whisk into the bowl. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his chef’s coat again, andGod, Marco wanted to weep at how gorgeous his muscled forearms were.

He’d seen how many pairs of forearms in his life, andthesewere going to make him lose his composure and even his mind?

Apparently.

“You did,” Andrew agreed.

“Thenwhy?”

Andrew just shrugged. Still unconcerned about Marco’s temper. “Thought I might demonstrate again that nifty little trick. You liked it in the cheesecake.”

“That was a cheesecakeon our menu,” Marco retorted.

“You don’t even want to try it before you throw a shit fit?” Andrew asked.

Marco told himself it didn’t matter how good it tasted. It was the principle of the thing.

What was he doing?Was Andrew intentionally trying to chip away at his self-control one dessert at a time? Did he enjoy reducing Marco to a boiling mess of sugar and emotion?

Maybe it was better if Marco didn’t know the answer to either of those questions.

“Fine,” Marco ground out.

He watched as Andrew prepared the dessert with expert precision. It had some kind of cookie base, topped with a cloud of pale yellow cream and then more of that whipped cream, a single sprig of thyme and a dusting of baked crumbs resting on top of all that fluff.

It looked like nothing.

But then Andrew handed him the plate and he took his first bite, and he swore in the back of his throat.

Barely resisted gobbling up another bite—or ten.

He hated how good it was. Perfect in every way. Like a flawless Italian summer.

He hated the glowing certainty in Andrew’s eyes that he’d love it.

Resisting the urge to demolish the entire plateful, he set it down with a deliberate click on the counter. “What are you doing?” he asked, this time out loud.

The knowing look in those eyes said it all. Andrew knew exactly what he was doing. But he pretended innocence, simply shrugging easily. “Being your pastry chef. Training Daniel to be one. He’s got promise. You were right.”

Marco wanted to smear the lemon cloud across Andrew’s mouth and then devour him.

It didn’t matter that this was his kitchen. It didn’t matter that Andrew was his employee.

Marco breathed out and then breathed back in. Trying to rein himself in.

“It’s a good dessert,” Andrew continued, carefully, like he finally comprehended how far he’d pushed Marco. “I’d like to keep it on the menu. It’s been popular. It would be a good special for the summer.”

“What’s that?” Marco barked. He wasn’t a barker. He didn’t normally give two shits about the hierarchy of the kitchen. That had always been Luca.

But now, for the first time, he had a glimmer of understanding of why his elder brother had said fuck it to everything and had run off to the wilds of South Carolina, to follow love.