Page 134 of Desserts for Stressed People

“Shane,” I press.

“I am!” he insists, and when he notices the pointed look on my face, he smiles. “You and anything with the right amount of sugar. Assuming it’s properly baked. And no packaged dessert. And not any of that low-calorie crap that tastes like cardboard. And—”

“Oh my God,” I whine.

“Eclairs and forest fruit cheesecake, apple cake, lemon bars, coconut truffles, though I also love dorayaki and brownies.”

I scoff, chuckling as my eyes close. Though I already knew he was never trying to guess my favorite treat, I had no idea he spent those first seven weeks of us feeding mehisfavorite desserts. “I love it.”

“And I love you.”

He’s up quickly, dragging me to the front of the shop. The chocolate waterfall in the back wall is already whirring, and I check the dirt of the many plants positioned around the shop to make sure they don’t need water. “Where’s Tess?” I ask, noticing his only employee is missing.

He moves behind the counter, studying the pastries in the glass display. “She’s coming in this afternoon. Her kid is starring in a show at school.”

Barely gulping down a chuckle, I nod. Mr. Asshole is long gone. He’s still a broody guy, which might just be my favorite thing about him, and this bakery is nothing short of perfection—ever—but he’s a kind, generous boss.

“Come,” he says, grabbing something from the counter. He takes my hand with his free one and walks to the side of the shop, through the door that leads to the internal garden. “Time for breakfast.”

I’ve hardly heard sweeter words.

I sit at one of the glass tables outside, the sun shining down on me from the skylight on the black roof. Hole aside, everything else is the same here. The brick walls are still standing, and the pavement was fixed for less money than one would expect. The original black railings hold tons of luscious plants that cascade over our heads, and the columns have been repainted, but they’re all still there.

I guess the only difference is the shops all around us and the people walking in and out of the green door like busy bees.

“Wait, I’ll get you something to drink,” he says as he sets a plate in front of me.

Before I can as much as glance at it, Jenny opens up the back of her Indian restaurant, the shutter rolling up with an obnoxious roar. “He keeps spoiling you with desserts, huh?” she shouts over the noise.

“Always,” I shout back, and with a wave, she disappears into the shop.

He always spoils me, with desserts and everything else. He says he’s decided I deserve desserts forever and keeps coming up with reasons why. Some of them are ridiculous too. With the muffin he brought back from work yesterday, he also gave me a note that read, “Correct positioning of groceries in the fridge,” and during ourIndiana Jonesmarathon last Sunday, he shoved a bucket of caramel popcorn in my hands and said, “You became a pro at separating egg whites,” which I’m most certainly not.

I look down at the pastry he prepared today, and Shane comes back out.

“Ginger tea,” he says, setting it down on the table.

“Is this—” I point at the plate, my mouth wide open as I blink the surprise away. “Are these Oreos?”

“Homemade Oreos.” He grins. “I figured, if this is your favorite dessert, I can try to top it.”

“But you hate Oreos.”

“No. I hate packaged desserts.” He points at the three beautiful Oreos on my plate. “These aren’t it.”

My stomach growls, suddenly empty, and holding back a shriek of excitement, I open the note they come with.

Our cups are colorful, mismatched, and the handles are positioned exactly forty-five degrees to the right.

“That’s why I deserve dessert today?” I ask with a giggle. He’s definitely running out of excuses.

“No. You deserve dessert because you own it like a fucking queen,” he says as he pecks the side of my head.

I grab the first cookie. It’s a little bigger than a normal Oreo, and the complicated pattern on the top isn’t there. Instead, the logo of Shane’s store is. I bite it, and the texture is a little different too. More buttery, maybe also a little softer. And the cream is so good, a moan escapes my lips.

“Good?” he asks, his eyes filled with expectation as he waits for the verdict.

“God, Shane.” My eyes roll back. “Good doesn’t begin to cover it.”