Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
My gaze drifts to his hands. Big, strong hands. Long fingers. Clean nails.
Do I like edging? I think I might from him.
I force myself to look right back at those mischievous green eyes.
“I do,” I say, my voice huskier than it should be.
“Good,” he says, then steps right next to me, so close I can smell his aftershave. The scent of campfire and a summer lake teases my nose. I try not to inhale it, but I’m a sneaky little thief, and I lift my face just enough to catch a second hint of it.
My chest warms.
And my gaze stays locked on this man as he traces the words I’d written in bright pink script. Slowly, teasingly, he says each letter like he’s tasting it the way he tasted frosting on my cheek last week.
When he’s done, he turns his face to me. “I like…Afternoon Delight.”
And I’m so hot and bothered it takes me a second or ten before I process the fact that he likes my naughty bakery name.
“Really?”
“I really do,” he says, then adds more soberly, “I’d tell you if I disagreed with you. Would you tell me?”
I snap out of my haze. “I would.”
“Good. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we should be able to talk about things.”
Things like how much I want to yank him close and feel his hot, hard body on top of me? Probably not that.
“I agree,” I say, trying to clear the lust from my voice. “And we have a lot to talk about.” I let go of the sign, grab my backpack, and pat it. “Like all the things we need to do.”
“And where we’ll donate proceeds from the dog cookies to,” he says.
I smile. “Definitely the dog cookies. I have a list of everything else, and you have a project schedule. We should start with the interior. Finish priming the drywall, then paint it. And order the garage door. Well, after we pick one. I think we should do all that before we move in tables and any furniture and, of course, display cases.”
I’m babbling, but it’s working, reversing that spate of lust.
When I pause for breath, Corbin adds, “And we need to plan a menu.”
“Right. Yes, duh.” Maybe I can try to be okay with letting the town laugh at me, but right now it feels deserved. How could I forget that mission-critical detail?
“It sounds like we agree on one important thing,” he says.
“The name?” I confirm.
“No. Mornings. Fuck mornings,” he says.
“That should be our tagline.”
He arches a brow. “Deal.”
I offer a hand to shake, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t imagine him yanking me against him and running those strong hands down my dress, fiddling with the undershorts, and figuring out expertly how to maneuver everything off.
But at least I’m satisfied that we both contributed to the store’s identity—I supplied the name, and he devised a cheeky tagline.
We go inside, sit down on the floor, and take a stab at the menu. The You’re My Salty and My Sweet is a must, of course. So is lemon shortbread, one of his favorites. Orange habanero cookies, a trademark of mine, along with the pistachio ones too. Seven-layer bars, with and without nuts, Corbin adds.
“We’ll call them Nutty Love and Un-Nutty Love,” I suggest.
“Everyone knows Nutty Love is the best kind of love,” he says.
“We’ll see.”
I stare at the ceiling for a minute, falling into the memory of baking a cake for my grandma’s seventieth birthday. Fresh strawberries and whipped cream, her favorite. “In the summer, we should make a strawberry cake.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, head tilted, a flicker in his eyes that seems to say he likes that image of us, being open in the summer, serving cake.
We finish the rough draft of the menu, then plot our next steps in getting this dream off the ground. I’d like to say I’m being all adult and businessy as we work. That I don’t think once about rubbing up against him, but that’d be a lie.
13
THE DAY I LOVED SWEAT
MABEL
Divide and conquer.
That’s the plan. As Corbin tackles the garage door ordering—fine by me, since he has lots of opinions on that—I tackle paint picking.
I enlist my interior designer friend, Skylar, to help me out, along with Remy, my glass-all-full friend, who’s surprisingly opinionated when it comes to paint chips. She works for the hockey team, handling community relations, but not full-time, so she’s been able to join us in checking out furniture and baking equipment.
And right now, we’re at the paint shop she likes in the Dogpatch District in the city, and Remy holds up a sample the color of Pepto-Bismol, mincing no words. “This makes me want to hurl.”
“Next,” I agree, and grab a soft mauve shade.
“Nope.” Skylar shakes her head, her red hair swishing. “That color can’t decide where it wants to go for dinner.”