“Oh, there’s something else you should know,” she says.
Get back on track, Hartley. “What’s that?”
“Dillon won’t be able to decide on a cake flavor without a second opinion, but I can’t really help him. Lactose intolerance is such a pain. If you’re up for it, maybe you could offer to be his second taste tester?”
I make a big show of cracking my knuckles. “You’ve picked the perfect person for the task. I can eat cake all day, every day.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
Before I can think too hard about the message in those expressive eyes of hers, Dillon Sands arrives, reminding me that in a few minutes, I’ll be stuffing myself with cake as part of a work assignment. How fucking cool is that?
Chapter Ten
Lina
“I don’t know, Max. Marble’s not my favorite,” Dillon says. “What do you think?”
Max’s head snaps back as though my client slapped him. “How could you not like marble? It’s perfection on a plate.” To emphasize his point, he cuts into his slice with a fork and brings the piece to his mouth as if the fork’s riding a roller coaster.
He’s having way too much fun with this—and that was never the goal.
These men have tried eight different cake-and-frosting combinations and are showing no signs that the tasting is getting to them. Note to self: Men are pigs.
“Hey, Dillon, guess what I’m doing?” Max asks. His eyes are droopy and he appears cake drunk.
Dillon isn’t much better off. His left arm is carelessly draped against the back of his wheelchair as he fans himself. “What are you doing, dude?”
Max devours another forkful of the marble cake. “I’m having my cake and eating it, too.”
Dillon stares at him, until he doubles over in silent laughter, probably because there’s frosting stuck to his vocal cords.
I fail to see the joke. Is this a guy thing? Or does overconsumption of cake negatively affect your brain cells?
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say, rising from my seat in a huff. “Excuse me.” After exiting the stall and washing my hands, I take a quick look in the mirror above the sink and reapply my lipstick as I ponder what went wrong. This was supposed to go one of two ways: Behind door number one, Max would decline to taste-test the cakes, in which case watching Dillon try more than a dozen cake-and-frosting combos would annoy him to no end. I was there when Dillon selected a style for the groomsmen’s boutonnieres, and it took three hours; I wanted that experience for Max. Badly. Behind door number two, Max would eat his body weight in cake and forever regret the day he walked through the doors of the Sugar Shoppe. But he’s happily shoveling cake into his mouth, completely undisturbed by the sugar and fat he’s consuming.
He’s depriving me of either of the outcomes I’d hoped for, and I want to stamp my foot at the injustice of it all. Maybe I’m not cut out for wicked games. Fair enough, then. I’ll find some other way to extract my petty revenge on Max Hartley.
When I return, Dillon’s slumped back against his wheelchair, and Max’s forehead is resting on the table. The tablecloth is riddled with cake carcass.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “What did I miss?”
Max groans. “He bought a few cakes and challenged me to a cake-eating contest.”
I stare at the disheveled heaps in front of me. “You both lost, I see.”
Dillon opens an eye. “On the contrary, I won. Full disclosure: I hold the record in college for eating the most hot dogs in a three-minute period.”
With his head still pressed against the table, Max whimpers. “That’s information I could have used three minutes ago.”
I mentally give myself a fist bump. This is not how I expected Max’s suffering to come about, but I’ll take it. Felled by his own competitive spirit; that’ll teach him.
“Did you at least settle on a flavor-and-frosting combo?” I ask Dillon.
With his head thrown back, my client tries to nod. “I’m going with the chocolate cappuccino torte. And the butter pound cake for guests who don’t eat chocolate.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I say. “Tricia will be so pleased.”
“Well, if that’s all you need from me,” Dillon says as he rubs his belly, “I’m going to head back to the office.”
Max raises his head long enough to shake Dillon’s hand. “Great to meet you, man. I hope your wedding is everything you and Tricia want it to be.”
Dillon smiles. “Thanks. With Lina at the helm, I have no doubt it’ll be amazing.”
And with my client gone, I’m free to needle Max. Humming my contentment, I take the seat next to him and lean toward his ear. “How you doin’ over there, champ?”
Max falls back over and rests one cheek on the table, his face in my line of sight. “I’m so warm. So full. So bloated.” He ekes out the words in a scratchy voice. “I don’t think I want to eat another piece of cake ever again.”
“Not even marble with buttercream frosting?” I say, unable to hide my amusement.
He shuts his eyes tightly and pretends to cry. “Not even that one.”
He’s adorable. Absolutely adorable. No. Wait. I’m trying to torture him. This isn’t supposed to be cute. But it is, dammit. How could it not be? He looks like a drunk chipmunk. A stunningly handsome drunk chipmunk, but still.
“Should I order you a Lyft or something?” I ask. “Or call 9-1-1?”
He slowly raises his torso and rakes a hand through his dark hair, scrunching his nose as he tries to get his bearings. “Nah, I’ll live. I’ve survived malagueta peppers, remember?” Then he swings his body to face me and wipes his mouth. “Do I look like I just ate five pounds of cake?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Actually, you do. There’s also cake in your eyebrows and on your cheek.”
“Shit, I’m a mess,” he says, fussing with his brows to shake out the crumbs burrowed in there.
“Here, let me,” I say, flicking at his brows with my pinkie fingers. When he juts his chin out to give me better access, I can’t help noticing the gold flecks in his brown eyes. And that’s when I realize he’s a little too close, and my hands are on him, and this isn’t how we’re supposed to interact with each other. But I don’t stop. Because all I want to do is trace my fingers across his brows, down the sides of his face, over his lips, and this is the closest I’ll come to doing any of that without him thinking I’m a creeper.
He licks off a crumb at the corner of his mouth, and my gaze snaps to his. His intense stare isn’t hard to read.
Do it, his eyes say.
I want to. I could. Just a few inches separate our mouths.
But wait. What the hell is going on? Why am I even contemplating this? I immediately scoot back, the scrape of my chair echoing through the bakery as though it’s warning me that I nearly crossed an invisible line.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice strained.
“Of course.” I brush off my hands, and when I’m satisfied they’re crumb-free, I continue to avoid Max’s probing gaze by fishing through my purse. “I just remembered another appointment. If I’m going to make it there on time, I should get going.”