Page 136 of Desserts for Stressed People

“Of course.” I hold back a laugh. “Sounds good. Did you figure out that PR debacle?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’ve sent you everything. Check it when you get to the office. I told Mark to follow you like a shadow until I’m back, so you should be fine.”

Shane shakes his head, his shoulders jumping up and down with silent chuckles.

“Great, thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, by the way, are you at the bakery?”

“Yes. Do you want something?”

“Hmm...Can I get a scone? No, actually...You know that ricotta-thing you brought last time?”

“Cannoli. Yes, I’ll grab a few.”

“You’re the best boss in the world, Fourth Floor.”

As I burst out laughing, Shane rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Sixth Floor.”

“Is Shane there?”

With furrowed brows, he walks to me, then looks down at the phone. “Hey, Marina. I’m here, what’s up?”

“Mr. Asshole,” she says in the tone she only reserves for him. Though their relationship has changed a lot, it’s still far more complicated than I’ll ever understand. At this point, I think they like pretending not to care about each other. “Miss Asshole might have told you already, but...Patricia and I are having a little party for my birthday at my place next weekend.”

Shane’s gaze meets mine as a light smile curves his lips. “She mentioned it, yes.”

“Well...you should come. If you bake the cake, that is.”

A slow exhale. “Are you inviting me or hiring me?”

There’s a beat of silence, and when I cock my brows at him, he nods, protesting with another eye roll.

“Thank you Marina, I’ll be there. Just send me an email with the details for your cake. My treat.”

“Finding Heaven was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she mumbles. Quickly clearing her throat as I stifle a chuckle, she continues, “I’ll see you then. Bye, Hassholm,” then she hangs up.

Poking at Shane’s side, I gloat. “See? Didn’t I tell you? She’s a different person now that she has a wonderful, understanding, patient boss.”

“Huh-uh.” He envelops me with his thick arms, and after a kiss that if we were home would turn into something else, he sighs. “Fine. The events department at IMP has thrived since you became their director. You’re much better at my job than I am.”

Grazing my lips against his, I shake my head. “No. Your job is this. Making desserts for stressed people like me, Emma, and Marina.”

His smile is bright as his fingers rub my lower back. “Best job I ever had.”

After a slow, delicious kiss, I push some hair off his forehead. “You’re my favorite dessert too. Better than packagedandhomemade Oreos.”

“I wish I could believe you, but I’ve seen you with cookies.” He bites my cheek as I chuckle. “What do you think her favorite dessert will be?” He smiles, his eyes bright with love as he lays a hand over my belly, gently rubbing the bump. “Only four more months.”

“I expect her first word to be ‘sugar’ or ‘butter.’” My hand moves over his. “But you do know babies don’t eat brownies for the first year. You’ll have to wait more than four months.”

For a second, he looks deep in thought. “I’ll make her chocolate milk.”

Emma shouts from the front that we’re late for work. Really, we’re the bosses. We’re late for work if we say we’re late for work. But I reluctantly move away from Shane.

Before I can fully detach from his flour-covered clothes, he grabs me back between his arms and smiles playfully onto my lips, hands stroking my back. “Remember when we met? You told me the story of your birth. Why your mom called you Heaven.”

I nod, cupping his cheek. “Yes. Why are you thinking about it? Are you worried about the birth?”

“No, no. Of course not.” He drags his lips across my forehead and sweet pecks rain over my skin, each more precious than the previous. “I was just thinking...I can’t wait to tell our baby the story of her name.”

With a chuckle, I look down at my generous bump. Before I can get a word in, Emma shouts again, this time to say that we’rereallylate.

“Go, go. Please, kick ass, all right?” Shane squeezes my hand. “Thank you. And take care of my daughter. Please and thank you. I’ll see you tonight,” he says as he cups one side of my head and kisses my other temple.

“Yes, Mr. Asshole, sir,” I say as I salute him.

He crouches down, looking straight at my belly like he always does. “And you, take care of your mom, Nevaeh.”

The End