Page 34 of Fairy Cakes in Winter

I chuckled in spite of myself and gave in to temptation, stroking his hair before kissing his forehead. God, he smelled so damn good. Like my soap and my shampoo…pleasing and familiar, yet better on him. Better than peppermint.

I frowned as I shifted off the bed.

What the fuck was I doing? I didn’t do lovey-dovey shit. That wasn’t me. I had sex I walked away from…period. I had to watch my step and forget about sliding into my warm bed to rock my hips against Theo’s ass till he purred like a cat and begged for my dick.

My dick didn’t agree. I practically had to use two hands to wrangle my python into my boxer briefs and jeans.

“You’re probably right,” I agreed, zipping my fly.

He sat up sleepily and rubbed his nose. “Mind if I take a shower?”

“Help yourself to whatever you need, but seriously…go back to sleep.”

Theo flopped sideways onto the pillow. “I will, and don’t worry. I’ll be gone before the sun comes up.”

I wanted to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but I also didn’t want him to stay.

Confused much? Fuck, I didn’t know what I wanted and I couldn’t think without caffeine, so I grabbed a shirt and shoes and hightailed it out of there.

Leaving a naked man in my bed.

I tooka quick shower and made enough coffee to last till dawn before checking the time: 3:25. That put me slightly behind schedule, but I could make it up. Given a chore and a strict deadline, I was a baking demon. Especially first thing in the morning. I wasn’t necessarily all smiles and conversation, but waking up at the ass crack of dawn was second nature to me.

I was the kid who tiptoed around the house at four a.m. to make myself a bowl of cereal and watch cartoons in peace until the rest of the household woke up. My mom speculated that I’d caught the baking bug when we’d run out of my favorite Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and I decided to make pancakes. She wasn’t happy about the state of the kitchen, but she commended my six-year-old self for being resourceful.

I still made a mean pancake, but I was the king of pastries, cakes, and biscuits these days. My family assumed I’d figured out a way to monetize my sweet tooth. They weren’t wrong, but the truth was…I had a deep appreciation for the science of baking.

You couldn’t fake a cake or give it a half-assed effort without making a mess. I paid attention in the kitchen. I cared about my ingredients, my measurements, my tools. I didn’t rush the process or take shortcuts—the way I sometimes did in my personal life.

Story of my life. Decent guy, good cook, great baker, always single.

And on that thought, I turned on a classic rock playlist, donned an apron, washed my hands, and got to work.

Three hours and four cups of coffee later, there was dough in the proving drawers, Chelsea buns ready to be iced, and two cakes in the oven. Oh, and…two dozen chocolate fairy cakes cooling on the island.

See, in the midst of mixing, measuring, and managing my baking to-do list, I realized that from the moment Theo and I had arrived in Bath, things had gotten pretty personal. Which made sense for obvious sexy reasons.

But fairy cakes were business, and baking them was a symbolic gesture that whatever happened between us was tied to a plane trip and a cupcake. In other words, I needed these fucking fairy cakes to keep us in the friend zone.

I wouldn’t say no to a month of sexy distractions with Theo, but I didn’t want any complications. That shouldn’t have been an issue. I mean, he lived on the other side of the globe, for fuck’s sake, but the fact that he was upstairs inmyflat, sleeping inmybed was a little worrisome.

I checked my watch—ten after six. No sign of Theo.

No problem. I had plenty of time to frost cakes, and bake scones and millionaire’s shortbread.

7:10. I eyed the organized chaos as I texted Becca to find out when to expect Clive with the delivery of pies, biscuits, and tarts from my London kitchen.

No Theo.

7:40. I turned the lights on in the shop and brewed fresh coffee in the industrial machine.

Still no sign of Theo.

Huh.

Okay, the sun didn’t rise until eight fifteen this time of year, but I was pretty sure the first train to Bradford-on-Avon left in ten minutes. I tilted my chin toward the ceiling and sighed before heading to the kitchen to begin transporting and arranging the fresh pastries.

Usually, I’d have someone else stocking the display cases so I could concentrate on finishing up with cakes and other desserts that sold better later in the day. Early customers tended to buy croissants, scones, and buns. Biscuits, tarts, and cakes became popular around noon, but I liked to have everything out by half ten. It would be later today if Joanne didn’t show up by nine. Eight would have been better. Joanne was good at peopling.