Page 89 of Desserts for Stressed People

“Yeah. Sure.”

I step to the side, and once he’s in the entrance, I close the door. As he takes a few steps into the living room, he slowly twists his neck left and right, looking around. After all, both times he was here, he probably didn’t pay too much attention to my furniture and was slightly more preoccupied with Alex.

I put the brownies down on the table, glancing at them as my saliva thickens. “Would you like something to drink?”

“A coffee would go well with those.”

Shooting a reprimanding look at him, I move toward the machine and point at the wall clock, which signals it’s almost nine p.m. “You know, you shouldn’t drink coffee at this hour.”

“I’m not big on sleeping. Coffee or no coffee.” He follows me to the kitchen and puts the bag on the table with a considerable effort. When he notices my questioning look, he gently slaps the top of whatever it’s inside. “I brought something else too.”

I almost expect him to take out some gigantic folder about the Devòn event, but he motions at me to look inside. “Mysterious...” I say.

He nudges his head toward it. “Come on. Check it out.”

I walk to the blue bag and peek inside. It’s a plastic food container with a green lid, but it’s enormous. Big enough that it must fit a whole turkey. “What is it?”

He takes it out of the bag and sets it on the table, his muscles flexing as he does. There’s a brown, dense substance inside—a chocolate spread? Did he dump twenty containers of Nutella in this thing?

“Hmm. I’m...confused,” I say as I fill the coffee machine with water. If that’s chocolate spread...why does he think I need twenty pounds of it?

“You remember my sister invited you to her birthday?” He threads his long fingers through his hair. “Well, she asked me to bake a cake for her. Four layers with raspberry jam and chocolate ganache. Covered in more chocolate and stupid little flowers.”

As he rolls his eyes, I stifle a laugh. “So...do you need me to help you bake?”

“I’ve seen your lunches at work. And the dorayaki debacle. You’ll never touch food around me again.”

I place my hands over my hips with a puff. “Excuse me. I happen to be an excellent cook. Not a baker like Mr. Hassholm himself, but my poached salmon is delicious.”

He studies my kitchen—judging it. “Okay. I guess we’ll have to make a date out of it. You cook, I’ll bake.”

My smile weakens, and I move toward the coffee machine, though the coffee hasn’t brewed yet. I set the mugs down and take out sugar and milk as he stands by the table in silence. Though I’ve dreamed of nothing other than a date with him for weeks, I’m much too embarrassed about what happened yesterday to enjoy this conversation.

“Do you want to know what this is doing here?” He points at the chocolate monstrosity.

“Yes.”

“Well, the cake’s baked, perfect. I’ve made the stupid pink flowers, and obviously, I’m all set with ganache.” He points at the container. “And guess what? The party’s canceled. Riley’s kid gave her measles. And now I have a hundred pounds of ganache, a bunch of sugar flowers, and a ridiculous cake.”

With a chuckle, I nod in understanding. “Well, as much as I appreciate fifteen gallons of chocolate ganache, I would have much rather eaten them with cake.”

“Nah. You might love my desserts, but that cake would have grown mold before you’d be able to eat the first half.” He passes a hand over his stubble. “I’ve given it to the soup kitchen.”

Oh, man. Why does he just keep getting better? “With the pink flowers?”

“No. No damn flowers. They’re practically inedible, and they look so dumb.” He takes out his phone. “I did something else.”

After he taps on it a few times, he shows me a picture. It’s his cake, and it’s beautiful. Like a wedding cake, but one of those modern, sleek-looking ones you find in magazines. There’s jam and chocolate ganache between the layers, but there isn’t any outside. Instead, red fruits and cream puffs cascade alongside it in a spiral.

“Wow,” I say, entranced. “Do you take pictures of all your desserts?”

His cheeks redden up. “Yeah, most of the time. Not if I’m doing something easy, like brownies or cookies. But more complicated stuff, yes. It’s my—I don’t know.”

When his lips bend up, mine do too. “Your art.”

My gaze melts into his, and our faces are quite close together. Enough that I can see all the shades of deep brown in his eyes, the long eyelashes around them, the little freckle next to his nose.

“Someone I know would say it’s my whim,” he whispers with an affectionate smile.