She frowns but doesn’t turn around to notice the hulking figure behind her. “But the penises,” she says. “They’re for a bachelorette party for my grand-niece and—”
“You’ve got your penises.” I wince at the sharpness of my words, wishing desperately we could stop saying that word in front of a guy who presumably has one. I’m trying not to look. “And I’ve got your order for next week’s Welfare Society luncheon. Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Sampson?”
“No, dear,” she says, finally convinced that I successfully piped one dozen flesh-colored phalluses onto her pastries. “You’re a doll, Chelsea. I hope you find a man soon.”
As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, she reaches across the counter and pats my cheek. Then she turns and brushes past the man who’s looking more than a little regretful about walking in here.
I get a better look at him this time, and nope, I didn’t imagine the axe. Or the fact that he has to be at least six-five, which means he has to duck to get under the doorframe as he holds it open for Mrs. Sampson.
“Ma’am.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes are kind. “You need help getting that into your car?”
“Thank you, Mark,” she says. “I’ve got it. You tell that sister of yours hello.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sister? Mark?
I study the guy more closely but see zero resemblance to five-foot-nothing Bree Bracelyn, the marketing VP for Ponderosa Ranch Luxury Resort. But this has to be the brother she’s talked about for months, right?
The door swings shut and Paul Bunyan—er, Mark—turns to face me. He scrubs a hand over his beard as he ambles toward the counter. “I need cupcakes.”
I glance at the axe in his hand and nod. “Uh, you’re in the right place for that.”
Folding my hands on the counter, I meet his eyes. They’re a warm brown like my favorite Guittard chocolate, and I forget for a moment that he could crush my skull with his hands if he wanted to. He doesn’t appear to want to, but I don’t have a history of being a great judge of men.
I push aside dark thoughts about my daughter’s sperm donor and the half-dozen other men in my past who’ve turned out to be real doozies and focus on the more immediate threat. Or is there a threat? Hottie Lumberjack doesn’t look terribly menacing. There’s an odd sort of teddy bear quality to the guy, if teddy bears had massive biceps and broad shoulders and sharp pieces of weaponry in their paws.
He catches me staring and sets the axe down beside my display case, leaning it against his thigh. That’s huge, too. Everything about this guy is enormous, so why do I feel more turned on than terrified?
The guy clears his throat. “I’m supposed to order two dozen cupcakes for a bunch of tour operators from—”
“I’m sorry, why do you have the axe?”
He cocks his head, genuinely perplexed. “For chopping wood.”
For fuck’s sake. “I mean why did you bring it into a cupcake shop?”
I’m no longer worried he’s here to lop my head off, but still.
He stares at me for a few beats, not answering, not blinking, not even smiling. Not that I could tell, what with the thick beard masking any sort of expression. But I can see his lips, which are full and soft and—
“Sharp.”
I blink. “What?”
“The axe,” he says. “Had to get it sharpened.”
“So you brought it to a cupcake shop?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No, I brought it to the shop down the street. Didn’t want to leave it in the truck because the doors don’t lock. Safety hazard.”
“Oh.” That actually makes sense.
Sort of. If this is really Bree Bracelyn’s brother, he’s a freakin’ gazillionaire. Not that any of the siblings in that family act like it, but it’s common knowledge the Bracelyn kids inherited a lot more than their dad’s ranch when he died.
Suffice it to say, Hottie Lumberjack could afford a truck that locks.
“Chelsea Singer,” I tell him, wiping a hand on my pink and green striped apron before offering it to him. “I own Dew Drop Cupcakes.” As an afterthought, I add, “And I’m not an axe murderer.”
His mouth definitely twitches this time. “Mark Bracelyn. Ponderosa Resort. Also not an axe murderer.”
“Good. That’s good.” And interesting. He didn’t volunteer his job title, but I know it’s something like Vice President of Grounds Management, which Bree told me he hates. He might be part-owner of a luxury resort for rich people, but he’d rather be regarded as the handyman. That’s what Bree says, anyway.
And don’t think I haven’t noticed Bree filling my head with Mark-related tidbits.
Mark built me a new woodshed this weekend.
Mark has a major sweet tooth.
Mark rescued a family of orphaned bunnies yesterday.
I’m not sure whether she wants me to date him or just think twice about macing him if we meet in a dark alley, but it’s odd this is the first time we’re meeting.
“So Mark,” I say, leaning against the counter. “What can I get for you?”
“Cupcakes.” He frowns. “Two dozen.”
“Right, but any particular flavor? Strawberry, peanut butter, kiwi, red velvet, double-fudge—” I stop when I see the dazed look in his eyes and nudge a laminated menu across the counter at him. “We have more than fifty cake flavors and three dozen frosting varieties, plus fondant and icing. There’s an infinite variety of combinations.”
Those brown eyes take on the ultimate “kid in a candy shop” glow, so I give him a private moment while I turn and wash my hands at the sink. His eyes become saucers as I turn back and reach into the display case to pull out a tray of mini cupcakes. I wouldn’t do this for every customer, but Ponderosa Resort is one of my biggest clients.
“This is one of our seasonal favorites right now,” I explain as I pluck a soft baby cupcake off the tray. “It’s Guinness chocolate, and it’s great with the Irish cream frosting. Would you like to try it?”
“Yes.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Yes, please.”
The gruff eagerness in his voice makes my girl parts clench, which is ridiculous. And a sign of how long it’s been since I had sex, which….um, yeah. Let’s just say dating’s not easy for single moms.
I whip out a pastry bag and do a quick swirl of frosting on top of the cupcake. “Here you go.”
Our fingers touch as I hand it across the counter, and I suppress an involuntary shiver. The good kind of shiver, like the one I do every time I bite into a perfect snickerdoodle. Good Lord, this guy has massive hands. He makes my mini cupcake look like a chocolate chip. “See what you think of that.”
I have to look away from the expression of rapture on his face. There’s something raw and intimate about it, and my belly’s doing silly somersaults under my apron. I survey my tray, trying to come up with another good flavor combo.
“Let’s see, this is one of Bree’s favorites.” I steal a look at his face, but if he’s surprised I connected the dots to his sister, he doesn’t show it. He’s too fixated on his cupcake, savoring every little mini-bite like it’s an act of worship.