It turns out my friends were right. They’ve been telling me for months that Amos is as attracted to me as I am him, but I never saw it. Yes, he bought desserts from my bakery even though his diner is famous for their own desserts. Yes, he personally picked them up every morning when he could have easily sent one of his employees, but the man was a real jerk about it. Every morning he opened the boxes of treats and counted them and looked them over like some quality control Nazi. Then he would grunt and leave with his box of desserts.
Frankly, it pissed me off and made me feel like an idiot for wanting him so dang bad. Now, I think he was so gruff and standoffish because he’s as affected by me as I am him. The tension has been building for months now, and it’s only a matter of time before it explodes.
“Well, thank you then. And thanks for saving my hard work. None of these other jerks made a move to help me, just gawked like it’d be one more competitor down. I knew this was a bad idea.”
Amos shakes his head. “It’s a great idea. It’s not your fault that they gave you a shitty table. It’s definitely not your fault that these assholes,” he turns and levels a nasty glare at several of the surrounding business owners, “would lift a selfish finger to help a woman in distress, regardless of how beautiful she is.”
My cheeks flush pink at the compliment. That’s another thing that’s changed. He’s continuously complimenting me. Not my baked goods—me. It’s a heady thing having a man like Amos compliment me. I’ve never had low self-esteem, but I’m a realist. I’m not nearly as thin as the ideal woman. My hair is a curly black tornado. No matter how much I try to straighten it, the curl bounces right back, and then it frizzes as if I offended it in attempting to tame my curls. I’m pretty, I guess, but definitely not in his league. He deserves some kind of supermodel hanging off his arm, not a curvy small-town baker who eats way too many of her own creations.
“I really appreciate it,” I say, trying to unsuccessfully clean myself up with the paper-thin napkins I brought for customers. The only thing I’ve managed to do is spread the stickiness and get bits of napkin stuck in the mess.
Amos closes the few feet that separate us, my heart pounds in my chest at his nearness. That’s one line he hasn’t crossed. He’s never gotten into my space. Flirted, yes. Touched no. He lifts his hand toward my face, and my breath arrests in my chest as the anticipation grows. Oh, God, he’s going to touch me.
His thumb glides across my cheek and comes away with a bit of pie filling. I could die of embarrassment… that is, until he lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks it off his finger.
Holy crap, that’s hot. My core heats, and my panties grow wet at the sight. He lets out a little growl of approval as if that little taste of pie filling is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He stares down at me with heated eyes, his lips slowly lowering to mine. My eyes fall closed, and I tip my head back ever so slightly, telling him I’m on board for his kiss.
“Sorry, I’m late!” Lani calls out as she comes rushing up.
Amos takes a frustrated step away from me. I instantly miss the heat that radiated off of him. I definitely miss the almost-kiss. With a sigh, I greet my best friend. She’s positively glowing. I’ve heard that pregnancy can do that to a girl, but I think it’s more about the man walking a couple steps behind his whirlwind of a wife. Yeah, Torin and Lani are the perfect couple who radiate love and happiness.
“What happened?” Lani asks with wide eyes.
I shake my head. “It’s a long story…”
1 Margo
My alarm goes off, and I slap it with a groan. Three A.M. comes early. Especially the day after book club… which at this point has devolved into drinking wine and eating the leftover desserts from my bakery. We might as well call it sugar-coma night instead, but Lani insists on keeping up pretenses. I slowly drag myself from my bed and make my way to the shower. I strip off my sleep shirt and flick on the cold water before stepping inside. The burst of freezing cold does its job and jolts my system awake. I adjust the temperature and relax into the steady stream of hot water. Minutes later, I’m dressed and have my hair twisted up into a tight bun.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m letting myself into the back door of the bakery and flicking on the coffee machine. I do my normal prep for the day while my coffee percolates. I’ve got the ovens preheating and the ingredients ready for my first recipe of the morning. I take my first sip of liquid goodness with a little sigh.
Before I know it, two hours have passed, and it’s time to put together the first special orders of the day. I leave packaging Burnt Sugar’s order until last. As always, I make sure every dessert in the box is perfect. Every double chocolate chip cookie is perfectly round. The mini pies are golden brown perfection. Even the cinnamon rolls are completely even in size and have the exact amount of sticky apple-honey glaze.
Thirty minutes after I open the doors, all the special orders have been picked up but for one. Amos always waits to pick up Burnt Sugar’s order until after the morning rush trickles out. Like clockwork, the bell above the door dings and in strides the object of my infatuation. He’s wearing a Burnt Sugar Diner t-shirt which
