Page 55 of Desserts for Stressed People

“The one with the big bookshelves?”

He grins. “You know it? They make the best cookies.”

“They totally do! Emma and I go there all the time. The owner loves us. She calls us Hemma because we’re always together.”

We walk toward the café, casually chatting. Being in his company is easier now—I don’t feel as tense. And he’s completely different from how he is at the office. He could even fool some people into believing he’s a friendly guy. He keeps talking, and I’m sure what he’s saying is interesting, but his relaxed grin distracts me. There’s dark stubble over his cheeks—considering at work he’s always clean shaven, it can’t be more than a couple of days old. Either way, it fits him.

His brows bend, bounce, pivot. They’re the most expressive part of his face as he speaks, and for the first time, I notice a little scar right below the right one, above the warm brown of his eyes.

I wonder if he looks as enthusiastic as he does right now when he bakes those delicious desserts he’s been feeding me. I can’t choose which one I liked the most—it must be the apple cake I found on my desk on Wednesday, or the lemon bars waiting for me yesterday morning. But every other sweet treat he baked for me over the last two weeks has left me speechless. What will wait for me on my desk on Monday?

“What is it?” he asks when he notices my insistent stare. “Come on. What?”

“Nothing. I was thinking about your desserts.”

He points at a store on the other side of the street. “You see that shop?”

“The shoe shop?”

“That’s where my grandpa and grandma’s bakery was,” he says, fitting his hands into his pockets.

Does it make him sad that the bakery is gone? That now there’s a run-down shop that sells hiking boots?

He keeps walking, and when he notices my inquisitive gaze, he shrugs. “I’m used to it. Before this shop, there was an internet café, and before that, a pizza place. It’s been a while.”

“Why did the bakery close?”

Nostalgia etches into his beautiful, dark eyes. “My grandpa passed, and my grandma continued working at the bakery until she died too. She used to say it was the only way she could still feel her husband with her.”

“I bet they spent more time there than at home.”

“For sure. When my parents left me with them, which was most of the time, they’d wake me up at four in the morning and we would all go to the bakery. I’d sleep on the couch in the back, and they would wake me up for school with dessert every day.”

A smile transfigures his gorgeous face with joy, and I can almost see a kid version of him, sleeping on a tiny couch with a blanket on, waking up to sweet old faces and the smell of butter and sugar.

“Did your parents sell it when they passed?” I ask.

When his grin flattens, I almost wish I didn’t pry. “Yes. My dad is in politics. My mom worked as a dentist, so sticky treats weren’t her thing. They had no time, or interest in keeping the bakery open, so they sold it. But my grandma worked there until the day before she died. She was eighty-eight.”

“Oh my God!” I shriek.

“Yeah, the woman was impressive. Hard worker. My mom says I took after her in more ways than she can count. I’m pretty sure it’s the best compliment she’s ever given me.”

He opens the door of the café, and I’m welcomed by the wooden floors and wall panels as the rich aroma of coffee envelops me. I love this place. There’s a gigantic tree in the center of the room and off-white columns divide the space. Every wall is filled with books. All of them. The one behind the counter too, but I suspect those books are probably stained beyond the salvage point.

“Heaven!” I turn to the old lady who owns the café. She’s the smallest human being I’ve ever seen, with puffed up cheeks and a mass of wild caramel blonde hair tied up over her head—a little ball of energy as she sprints to me. “Oh, dear. Where’s Emma?”

Shane and I share a smile before I focus back on Mrs. Powdy, whose brows are bent with concern. “Emma is at home. I’m here with a...” My hand points toward Shane, but I freeze. Should I call him a friend? Colleague? Boss?

“Shane Hassholm,” he says, offering Mrs. Powdy his hand to shake.

She shoots me a proud look, her thin lips bending in a knowing smile.. “Oh...So no more Hemma? Is it Shaven, now?”

Oh, crap. Although I can’t see them, my cheeks must be closer to crimson red than my usual pink. “Yeah, anyway,” I say, trying to change the topic, then I widen my eyes, “I mean, no. I’m—”

“This place is wonderful. I’ve been here before, but I don’t think we’ve had the chance to talk,” Shane turns to Mrs. Powdy, saving me from the awkwardness again.

“Come, come,” she says, clapping her hands excitedly as her apron flaps left and right. “I’ll show you our wall of history while Heaven takes care of your order.”