Page 34 of Desserts for Stressed People

I shrug. “It’s my job.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says with a pointed look before gesturing toward the counter. “Don’t you want to eat anything? I’m not sure if we’ll have time to stop for lunch.”

Behind the glass panel is an abundance of pastries, but it doesn’t look like there’s any lunch food here. And though those muffins look appealing, I’ve had three cookies this morning. “Uh—no, thanks.”

“Really?” His brows arch, then he turns to the counter. “You don’t like dessert?”

My eyes flare as I frantically shake my head. If there’s something I don’t want is for him to think I hate the thing he’s most passionate about. “No, I love dessert. Love it. Adore it. Maybe...” I swallow, trying to reign in the crazy. “Maybe I like it a tad too much.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing,” he says as he rests his back against the chair. “Unless you’re trying to lose weight, which”—he points at me—“shouldn’t be your case.” His head jerks back, and widening his eyes, he shakes his head. “Oh. That was...unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry for saying I’m skinny? I’ve been called worse. “No, it’s all right,” I reassure him.

Silence settles as we both stir our coffees, and once my eyes run over the pastries again, he clears his voice. “So...how does one like dessert too much?”

“Oh, it’s just—nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Come on,” he teases. “I’ll decide if it’s stupid. I’m Mr. Asshole after all.”

Studying his curious gaze, I inhale deeply. Now it’s just going to look weird if I don’t tell him, so I might as well hope he finds my quirks endearing. “I...” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I have this habit of—I only eat dessert as a treat.”

His brows furrow. “A treat?”

“Yeah.” My cheeks burn, but I stare at my coffee and continue, “Like a prize. If I do something good, or...if Ideserveit.”

He says nothing for a while. When I look into his eyes, he looks distracted, but quickly smiles. “Well, you’ve fixed two difficult situations for me today. I’d say that’s worth a prize.”

“True, but...I had cookies for breakfast.”

He tilts his head. “As a prize for...”

Oh, boy. “Last night, I finished the book I said I’d read by the end of the week.”

“Right. So...totally different reasons. You’ve earned plenty of dessert since then.”

His gaze burns on mine as if he expects me to agree, so I do. To be honest, my mouth filled with drool the moment I saw all the pies and cakes behind the glass counter.

With a smile, he stands and walks to the pastries. Apparently, he’s choosing for me.

My head shakes as he studies a tray of donuts. I wonder what the hell is going on in his mind. Is he trying to guess what I might like? Is he checking for the quality of the desserts? Can you tell if they’re good by looking at them?

Leaning back in the chair, I exhale.

He’s so handsome. Every new angle I get of him makes it excruciatingly obvious. Now that he’s leaning forward with his hands in his pockets, his pants fall loosely down his legs. His shoes are shiny and untarnished, like he just bought them, his arms thick and muscular.

When his eyes squint, a little pout blossoms on his lips. Then the waiter approaches him, and he speaks, pointing at the pastries. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the way his jaw moves, how his lips open up and close, is entrancing.

He suddenly turns to me, making me flinch as I pretend to go through my bag. Shit. How long have I been staring at him for?

“Here.” I peer at the plate he sets down with a slice of what looks like chocolate cheesecake and a blueberry muffin. “I thought we could share.”

Oh. Sharing pastries with Shane.

“Sure, sounds good.” I try to sound casual, but it’s painfully obvious I’m not. Sharing dessert with Shane will surely skyrocket to my top ten moments of the last—hell, of a long while.

Ignoring the light fluttering of my heart at the sight of pastries, I fix a lock of hair behind my ear and take the fork he’s offering me.

“So...how long have you been at IMP?” he asks.