Total pages in book: 6
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
“It tastes like what you should have.” The rasp of his voice thrums deliciously across all my erogenous zones, which, right now, include every single molecule in and on me. Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s recalibrating. Downshifting. “But I’d also recommend the vanilla celebration cake. It goes with polka dots,” he says, his gaze sailing up and down my dress.
“I’ll take it.”
As he moves to the display case, strong arms reaching in to grab the cake, I try to look away. And I fail miserably. I am officially an ogler.
True, I have a thing for blazing guns like his. But I’m omnivorous, really. I want toned arms, kind eyes, a clever brain, and a big heart.
I want it all. That’s probably why I’m holding my V-card at age twenty-six. I haven’t met someone who revs my engine on all cylinders.
I’m not sure one guy in a cake shop will tick all my boxes, but I’d like to learn how many checkmarks he can make.
He glances my way. “Want me to bring this to you at a table or the cake bar?”
There is only one answer. The cake bar runs along the counter. If I sit there, I can keep talking with him.
“The cake bar,” I say with a small smile as I move away from the register and along the counter, where I pop onto a tall metal stool.
“Good choice,” he murmurs. He slides a sharp knife through the cake, then serves it, handing me the plate and a fork. “I hope you enjoy it, Miss Polka Dot.”
I roam my gaze over him. “I hope so too, Mister Dessert.”
He smiles and then turns away to wash his hands. I check my phone. I’m a terrible friend for hoping Ellie might be later still.
The universe must be granting wishes today because a new message blinks up at me.
Ellie: Don’t hate me, but I can’t make it. Trains are slow, and I need to get to the set!
* * *
Veronica: I’m glad you didn’t make it, and I’ll tell you why later.
* * *
Then I put the phone away and take a bite of cake, chased by flirty, dirty hope.
3
Other Words for Dating
Milo
* * *
Dear Self,
* * *
Joel did not ask you to fill in today to flirt with his customers. You are here to serve cake while he takes his wife—your very good friend—to an ultrasound appointment. You are not here, you dirty stinking pervert, to check out the absolute fox in the pink dress with the white polka dots, with that chestnut hair curling just so over her shoulders and those plush, red lips. Nope. You are here as a good friend and absolutely nothing more.
* * *
Sincerely, the Angel on Your Shoulder
* * *
Except, what’s so wrong with flirting? It’s not like anything is going to come of it. I know better than to get involved because dating leads to disaster, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.
But it’s been a while since I’ve had a great conversation, and I doubt I’ll see this woman again.
Angel, stand down. Devil, you’re up.
I hang around her side of the cake bar as she picks up her fork and takes a bite of the slice in front of her.
“Mmm. Ten out of ten. That’s my review.”
“Are you a reviewer?” I ask, bracing myself. Online reviews are the bane of my existence.
Laughing, she shakes her head. “Nope. But I could leave one on Google if you’d like.”
Aww, that’s sweet. “I appreciate it, but there’s no need. The Internet is a terrible thing. We should abolish it.”
She shoots me a doubtful look. “Damn. We were vibing for a while there, Mister Dessert. We might be three out of five now.”
I groan, over the top style, as I wipe down the counter. “Nooo. Don’t break my heart. You love the Internet? Imagine how much nicer people would be to each other if they didn’t have the keyboard and a screen to hide behind.”
To hide their lies.
“I’ll grant you that, but I’m not one of those Internet haters. You’re not going to be able to back me up against that wall,” she says, dipping the fork into the frosting.
I’d like to back her up against the wall, hike up that dress, and grind against her.
She brings the fork to those lush lips, then licks off the frosting, savoring it, doing indecent things to the utensil with her tongue.
I whimper.
Must focus. I shake off the dirty thoughts like a dog getting out of the shower. “You know how it goes. You’re in synch. You’re out of synch. Before I know it, you’re going to tell me you don’t like”—I pause to cast about for something universally beloved—“flowers.”
She scoffs. “C’mon. That was a softball. Who would possibly hate flowers?”
I laugh, then set down the rag next to the sink. “Sometimes you need softballs. So we are officially back to four out of six. Which is sixty-six percent, if you were wondering.” I wiggle a brow like I just said the sexiest thing.