Page 25 of Pretty Desperate (Pine Village #6)

KAMERON

L ike the creeper I apparently am, I’ve spent the last hour watching Jillian decorate a three-layered blueberry lemon cake with vanilla buttercream frosting.

Apparently, the cupcakes she’s selling today were made from the leftover batter last night.

She let the cupcakes cool before placing them in an air-tight container.

Then, decorated them first thing this morning.

The mixture of flavors was so exquisite, I’m hoping she adds thick slices of the cake to the dessert menu for my restaurant.

Maybe a summertime treat.

“What are you thinking about over there?” she asks, adding the finishing touches to the decorated cake.

“We should discuss the menu for desserts at the restaurant. I’d love to see this lemon blueberry cake on the list.”

She nods, setting the piping bag down on the counter and brushing a wayward strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.

I reach over and swipe away the hair, taking it between my fingers and gently moving it behind her ear.

The gesture has a romantic feel, the room sexually charged.

I like her hair, plain and simple. Like the way it smells, the way it feels between my fingers, the way it frames her heart-shaped face.

Her green eyes hold mine; her lips are parted just a touch.

Her mouth looks completely kissable, and I find myself leaning in and doing just that.

The kiss is light but still packs a punch.

It makes my entire body flush with need; my cock starts to thicken in my pants. And that’s just from a simple kiss.

Before it can go anywhere—like bending her over the workstation and messing up the cake she’s spent the last hour perfecting—I pull back and smile. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” When I register confusion on her pretty face, I add, “For the dessert menu.”

“Oh,” she replies, standing up straight and clearing her throat. She takes a couple seconds to collect herself before telling me her plan. “I know your current baker does two different desserts weekly, refrigerated to help keep them fresh, but I was thinking of trying something new.”

I give her a quizzical look. “How do you know that?”

She shrugs her petite shoulders. “I know desserts. I’ve learned a lot over the last few years of owning this place, and the best way to keep baked goods fresh is in the refrigerator in an air-tight container.”

“Fair enough. Yes, that’s exactly what she does. She delivers on Wednesdays before I open for dinner.” I prop my hip against her workstation and watch as she completes her cake, placing it gingerly inside a white box and closing the lid. Then, she wraps the top in plastic wrap to help seal it.

“I was thinking, since I’m here—in town,” she clarifies, “I can make them fresh sooner. So the chocolate cake is truly fresh and not refrigerated, and the peach cobbler is still warm from the oven.”

Her suggestion shocks me. “Jillian, that seems like a lot of extra work. You’d be making desserts every day,” I counter, knowing how busy she can get, especially during high-tourist season.

She turns and meets my penetrating gaze. “But it’s not work when you’re doing what you love.”

My respect—the huge amount I already had for her—just skyrockets once more.

She’s truly a remarkable creature, and I don’t understand why someone hasn’t claimed her as his own yet.

Or why someone would let her go, because I’m definitely thinking her ex-husband is the dumbest asshole this side of the Mississippi.

Maybe even the entire continent. But it also seems like a big ask.

Not that I’m asking—she’s offering—but still.

I do understand her, maybe even better than anyone else.

“How about this. We’ll give it a try that way and see how it goes, but if it’s too much for you, I want to know.

We can adjust the delivery schedule so you’re not making fresh desserts every day. ”

A faint smile crests her lips. “I’ll be fine, Kameron, promise. This is what I do.”

And making sure I take care of you is what I do.

Except, that’s not exactly true.

Our relationship isn’t real, even if it’s starting to feel like it is.

I push that thought from my head. “Still, let’s do a trial run.”

She shrugs and moves the decorated cake to the fridge for tomorrow’s pickup. “That’s fine.” Turning to me, she hops up on the corner of the counter. “So, this is what I’ve been thinking,” she starts, and then proceeds to tell me all about the menu options she’s been working on.

My mouth waters at all the delicious options she’s come up with, but mostly, I can’t get over her enthusiasm.

The excitement that transforms her face as she tells me about her ideas.

One chocolate and one non-chocolate, mostly a fruit option, each week.

Honestly, I want to try them all. Many have been featured at my restaurant before from the other baker, but there’s something so different about hearing about them from Jillian’s lips.

I know she’ll make each dessert as unique as possible and the best she possibly can.

I’m excited for this partnership.

“Let’s plan to finalize the details at the end of the month,” I suggest.

“Sounds good.”

“Now, are you done for the day?”

She gives me a slow grin and shakes her head. “I still have to prep for tomorrow.”

My heart sinks a little, only because I was hoping to steal her away for a bit right now, but what I have planned can wait. “Okay, I’ll help. Then, I’m taking you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” she asks, her eyes brightening a bit.

“Yeah, unless you already have plans?” The thought of her going to dinner with someone else doesn’t sit well in my gut.

“No plans. I was just going to make a salad or something when I got home.”

“How about a taco salad? We can walk down to the Mexican restaurant after we’re done here.”

She nods. “Sounds great, though I don’t get a taco salad.” She moves over to the shelf and retrieves a new mixing bowl.

“No?” I ask, watching as she sets the dirty, used utensils and bowls on the small counter beside the sink basin.

“Nope. I can eat my weight in chips and salsa, and then still consume an entire steak burrito with queso on top.”

Fuck, she’s perfect.

“Yeah? It’s a date.”

Best. Date. Ever.

“Oh! Let’s get ice cream!” she proclaims as we walk back to her bakery from the Mexican restaurant.

“You’re still hungry?” I tease, even though I’m honestly a little impressed. Jillian was absolutely right about eating her weight in chips and salsa and then wolfed down a big steak burrito with queso. How in the world she has room for ice cream right now is beyond my comprehension.

“See, here’s the beauty about ice cream. It melts in your mouth, so when it reaches your stomach, it just slides into the cracks and crevasses around the other food. Ice cream is a filler, if you will.”

I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh. “Makes total sense,” I assure her with a smile, turning a bit so we can cross the street and hit Miss Molly’s Ice Cream Parlor. We do have to walk a little farther down the street, past Jillian’s bakery, to the next block.

When we reach the door, there aren’t too many customers hanging around.

The outside picnic tables are empty, since the evenings are starting to cool off now, but there are a few customers sitting at the little bistro tables inside.

It’s a small place, similar in size to the bakery down the street and is a popular place for the kids, especially after football games.

“Hi, Jillian, Kameron,” Molly greets with a smile.

“Hey, Molly. How’s it going?” Jillian asks pleasantly.

“Not too bad,” she says with a little shrug. “Always gets a little slower after Labor Day, but fortunately, we have a great community who supports us and keeps us hopping.”

Jillian nods in agreement, and I imagine they’re both in the same boat. They rely heavily on the busy tourist seasons to help create enough revenue to help sustain them during the slower months. “So, what do you have on special this week?”

Molly’s eyes brighten. “I have cotton candy ice cream and a lemon sherbet with raspberry swirl.”

“Oh, the sherbet sounds amazing. I’ll have a single scoop cup of that, please.”

Molly looks at me expectantly. Usually, I get the mint chocolate chip ice cream, but the sherbert does sound good. “I’ll have the same.”

She moves quickly, grabbing two paper bowls and placing a hearty scoop of the sherbet in each. She slips a little wooden spoon inside and sets them on the counter. “Six forty-two,” she says, taking off her plastic serving gloves and tapping on the register screen.

Jillian goes to retrieve money, but I wave her off and hand over a ten-dollar bill. When Molly grabs my change, I put it directly into the tip jar. “Thank you,” she states with a grin. “Enjoy your sherbet.”

We take our bowls over to one of the bistro tables and have a seat. Upbeat pop music pipes through the speakers in the corners of the room, just loud enough to hear, but not so loud you have to raise your voice to talk.

I take my first bite of the lemony, raspberry goodness, happy with my choice. “This is good,” I confirm, earning a nod of agreement from Jillian.

“It really is. Very summery.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, enjoying our treat and taking in the décor and ambiance. A couple of teenagers arrive, walking to the counter and placing their orders for double scoop waffle cones. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been here on a weeknight.”

“No?” she asks, licking the sherbet off her little wooden spoon. My dick definitely takes notice.

“Nope,” I reiterate. “The restaurant is open Wednesday through Sunday, and the other two days are spent doing housework and prepping at the restaurant.”

She meets my gaze, her green eyes reflective pools of curiosity. “You’ve never brought a date here?” Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

“Uhh, no. You’re my first,” I reply with a wink.