Bri.
She held a bakery box in her arms and wore a shy smile—and a different sweatshirt this time. Aqua, which lit up her makeup-free eyes like a firecracker. “Surprise.”
It certainly was.
“Now you’re making deliveries that people didn’t even order? That’s got to be good for business.” He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his thumping heart. What would she think if she knew he’d been so distracted by their recent interactions that he’d finally typed her name over and over on his computer, just to get her out of his head? Apparently it’d conjured her up instead.
Then he straightened abruptly. The laptop was open on his bed—and he couldn’t remember if he’d minimized the Word document.
“This is more like a special delivery.” Bri started to step inside, but he instinctively blocked the way. She raised her eyebrows. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah, I mean. Sure.” His chest knotted. He wasn’t trying to be weird, but he had to shut that screen ASAP. Thankfully it was facing toward the headboard, away from where they stood. Maybe she’d leave quickly. Or maybe Mrs. Beeker would come back any minute, and he could send them both away before his computer outed his confusing feelings.
Except he didn’t want Bri to leave.
And it had only a small part to do with the rich aroma drifting from the box she carried. He edged closer. “So, what is it? Bedtime snack? Some kind of petit-four taste test?”
“Not exactly.” She set it on the desk—across the room from the bed, to his relief—and started to open the cardboard flaps. Then she stopped, her cheeks tinting pink. “You open it.”
Okay, now she was being weird. He hesitantly moved to the box, part of him still desperate to shut his laptop. But she wouldn’t stay long, and besides, she had no reason to get near his bed.
The thought made his own face hot, and he quickly lifted the cardboard flaps.
A cake stared back at him—chocolate. Elegant gold script dipped and swirled above a piped motorcycle. Bon anniversaire.
He sucked in his breath. Not just a cake.
A birthday cake.
“Bri . . .” A hundred conflicting emotions skittered across the surface of his heart. No one had ever done something like that for him before. A dozen memories from his childhood cascaded over him, blurring his vision. His mom had tried, she really had.
But this.
He turned to Bri, afraid of what might be in his eyes, but more afraid not to look at her. And only a little afraid of what he’d see. “Thank you.” The words felt petty and insufficient. He was a writer, for crying out loud. He could do better.
But his tongue felt thick and seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.
“No problem.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, then crossed her arms over her sweatshirt. A smile teased her lips. “Sorry it’s not red.”
“That’s the best part.” He grinned, grateful for the comic respite from the uncertainty hovering over him like an anvil. He should say something more. He should hug her.
He should see if her glossy lips tasted like icing.
“Want to try it?”
His gaze locked on hers as his heart clambered in his chest. Yes, he did. Then he remembered she couldn’t read his mind.
She meant the cake.
He drew in a long, deep breath, chasing away the sudden and unwelcome rush of desire. “Yeah.” Anything to switch gears.
She dug in her oversized bag and produced two paper plates, two plastic forks, and a serving knife.
Nothing she did would surprise him at this point. “You travel prepared.”
She shrugged and cut into the cake. “You want the motorcycle?”
“Did you have to ask?”
She sliced into the thick black wheel and cut off a sizeable square, then deposited it onto a plate. “Bon appétit.”
He forked off a piece, his hand shaking a little beneath the plate. And he’d rejected all of those teas, so he couldn’t even blame it on too much caffeine.
She reached back into her bag and pulled out a thermos of coffee.
He almost choked on his cake. Maybe just a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt.
She poured some of the dark brew into the thermos lid that doubled as a mug and handed it to him. “For the birthday boy.”
He took a sip. Still warm, and just a little bitter. Like always. “I still can’t believe you did this.”
She leaned her hip against the edge of the desk. “I had some spare time.”
Hardly. He leveled his gaze at her over the rim of the mug.
She laughed—did it sound a little nervous? “Okay, so I had to make the time.”
For him. He wasn’t sure how to take that gesture—even less sure how he wanted to take it. He set his mug on the desk to pick his cake back up. He had to keep his hands busy or he’d get his answer sooner than he was prepared for. His fingers itched to tangle in her hair. He tightened his grip on his fork.
Thankfully, she ambled away from the desk as he chewed, roaming over to the bookshelf on the far wall and running her finger over the dusty titles he’d already examined.
“No Austen, sorry.” There actually had been one volume, but he’d started reading it the other night and hid it under his nightstand.
She shot him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Then what on earth are you and William going to discuss at the wedding tomorrow?”
“Easy. Motorcycle Weekly.”
This time her laugh rang genuine. And everything in him wanted her to do it again. He eased closer to her, following like a reluctant magnet, stuffing another bite of cake in his mouth on the way. “See anything else good over there?”
“You mean you haven’t looked for yourself?” She pulled a book halfway from the shelf, tilted her head to read the title, then slipped it back into place. “Mrs. Beeker has good taste.”
“Not in color schemes.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I take that back. She’s got Charles’s
