Page 48 of Desserts for Stressed People

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’ve never shown him this side of me, I guess. At work, I’m much more confident than this. But as much as I try to convince my brain tonight’s a work event, it doesn’t stick. “I feel like a fraud. What if they ask questions I can’t answer? I’m not an event manager—I’ve never done this before.” My head shakes left and right. “I don’t know anything about fashion. I don’t know who these people are. I’ll say the wrong thing, and everyone will laugh, and I’ll embarrass you and the company and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Shane grasps my shoulders. “Breathe, Heaven.”

Easier said than done. And it isn’t exactly helping that he’s touching me, his hands firm and warm on my skin. “There’s so much that can go wrong. What if I’m in way over my head?”

He huffs, like such a ridiculous thought deserves no attention. “You’re not. You’re handling it all like a pro. Much better than any other event manager I’ve ever worked with. I don’t know if it’s because you’re so likable and people can’t say no to you, or if you’re the best multitasker in this world. But this event will be a success because of you.”

I give him an unconvinced shrug. I know he’s trying to calm me down, so I don’t point out that he’s working twice as hard as me, and that my work of coordination wouldn’t be worth half a penny if it wasn’t for all the talented people who’ll play a part in the event.

“Hey. Why don’t we take it one step at a time?” His thumb strokes the spots below my shoulders. “Tonight, it’s all about tasting pretentious food and impressing some clients.”

“I don’t know how to impress clients,” I protest.

“You don’t need to do anything. You’re impressive as it is.”

I look into his glimmering eyes. This is the second compliment he’s given me tonight, and I feel like I should reciprocate. Tell him he’s much more impressive than me. How having him around feels magical, maybe like I’ve won the lottery. Or how I love his desserts. How I wish I could eat nothing else but the delicious pastries he bakes for me. How, since tasting his desserts, every boxed pastry I’ve eaten tastes bitter.

But I get lost in the endless brown of his irises, and while I am, I can’t put two words together. Instead, I dream of him leaning his head forward. Of his lips grazing mine and his stubble scraping my skin. I almost convince myself he’ll do it when we keep staring at each other in silence, and his hands still squeeze my arms.

“You’ll do great.”

His hands retreat, and the lack of his warm skin on mine almost floors me, but I force the corner of my lips to rise. True, he didn’t kiss me, but he tried to make me feel better. He still thinks I’m impressive.

He walks, but I hold his arm. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“What if they ask about the location? You never told me your thoughts about my choice.”

He grins. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

It surely matters more than what I think. As he strides away, I hurry by his side. “So which one will you send them?”

“I’ve already sent them my recommendation.”

“You did?” I gasp. “What is it?”

He reaches for the restaurant’s door, then nudges his head toward it. “Let’s find out.”

* * *

We walktoward a long table—ten, maybe fifteen people sitting around it. I almost want to turn around and leave because I can feel all eyes on me, even if they probably aren’t. And Shane maybeisa fortune teller because as soon as that thought crosses my mind, his hand clasps my elbow, and we keep advancing.

“Shane, boss man!” A blonde, middle-aged and utterly gorgeous woman walks up to us and kisses both of Shane’s cheeks. “How are you? How is everything?”

He grins, and I can almost see him dial the charisma up a notch, as if he’s wearing his clients-only mask. I bet if I had half his experience with this, I’d have one too, but I never deal with clients, and I’m like a fish out of water.

“I’m doing great. How about you?” he answers.

Her eyes shift to me. “Oh, I didn’t know your wife was joining us. Nice to meet you.” She offers me her hand to shake as my cheeks redden.

“No, no. She’s not—” Shane quickly tries to recover from the obvious shock written on his face. “She’s the project manager in charge of the event. Not my—no.” He turns to me. “No. I’m not married. No.”

Geez. Did I count five “nos”? I try not to let the fact that he looks appalled by the idea sink in and smile instead, though I give him a murderous glare. He needs to keep his shit together for me tonight. “Nice to meet you. Heaven Wilson.”

“I’m Therese,” she answers, still sending amused glances at Shane. “Did you say Heaven?”

“Yes, Heaven. Like...” I point my finger up.