Page 51 of Desserts for Stressed People

“Huh,” I say with a tilt of my head. “I guess it was three times.”

He gives me a half-laugh, then motions at me to speak.

“When Charles talked about the decline of the fashion industry, when Therese went on a rant about the models’ diets, and when the bald guy with the weird eyes complained about the pasta not being cooked properly for twenty minutes.”

“Oh, yes. That was truly insufferable.”

As we chuckle, a blonde woman with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen struts out of the kitchen. “Hi, I’m Linda.” She walks directly to Shane with a suggestive smile, as ifwehaven’t spoken on the phone plenty before. I’m pretty sure he has no clue who this woman is.

“Nice to meet you. Shane Hassholm.” He motions toward me. “You’ve probably spoken to my colleague, Heaven Wilson.”

Linda acknowledges me with a disgusted jerk of her head, then focuses back on him. “How did you like the dinner, Mr. Hassholm?”

Oh, okay. Is that how she wants to play this?

Shane throws me an awkward look, promptly returned by me. I can’t say for sure why this woman is pretending I’m not here, but if I have to take a guess, she likes Shane’s broad shoulders and chin dimple more than she likes my thin waist.

I get it, but it doesn’t make it less rude.

As if to prove a point, her forest green eyes study him from head to toe, and a wider grin appears on her lips when he mumbles that dinner was excellent.

With an eye roll, I interject, “I’ve collected the feedback from our clients, and I should get you an answer by tomorrow morning. But I can already tell you that the bacon-wrapped dates and the mini-tacos were not much appreciated.”

I’m only halfway through my thought, and Shane might just be onto something when he tells me I talk too much, because Linda, who hasn’t bothered looking at me while I spoke, continues, “And will you be at the event, Mr. Hassholm?”

Wow, how subtle. I cup my mouth, trying to hide my amusement, as Shane takes a step back. “Yes. Well, terrific to meet you, Linda. Heaven will send you the final menu, and, uh...we’ll see you at the event.”

There isn’t an ounce of excitement in his voice, but Linda bats her lashes and twirls her pretty sunset blonde locks as she walks us to the door.

I have to give it to her, she knows how to show what she wants. I almost envy her confidence. She’s beautiful, but she’s coming onto him so bluntly. How the hell does one do that?

Shane’s hand moves between my shoulder blades, and I wince in surprise as I follow him out of the restaurant. It’s almost fun to see how quickly he gets out of there. Like a scared animal.

Linda-the-predator walks us out of the restaurant and waves goodbye—she’s short of a sign saying “Linda hearts Shane Hassholm,” honestly. We walk through the parking lot, and I madly want to mess with him over Linda, but I’m also quite aware he’s my boss and don’t want to overstep. After all, we’re friendly, we’re notfriends.

“Cold?” he asks, and it’s so casually forced that I can’t hold back my chuckle. He closes his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “That woman terrified me.”

“She scared the crap out of me too.”

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t you she was after, was it?”

He looks back, and he seems genuinely concerned, so I pat his arm. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll see you to your car and make sure you get home safely.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Wilson. I believe that’d be appropriate.”

He opens the car door for me, and once again, his hand holds mine until I’m sitting. When I turn to thank him, I notice his gaze, fixated on my exposed thigh.

I quickly pull the satin fabric over me, and he closes the car door, making his way to the driver’s seat. “Okay. The clients are happy, and we both survived. I think we’re doing good.”

And I think he’s changing the topic. “We’re doing great.”

We make our way out of the parking spot, driving through the dark streets in comfortable silence until he clears his voice. “Am I making any progress?” When I turn to him, he shrugs. “With the desserts.”

Oh, that. I stare at the road. “I don’t remember any clause in our deal about giving you hints.”

“I don’t remember asking for any hint.” He puckers his lips. “I am confident I’ll figure it out before you go back to your little floor.”

My little floor. “Maybe that’s what I’ll ask you to do when I win.”