This shouldn’t be getting me hot, right?
I clear my throat and swirl some lime zest frosting onto a lemon cupcake. “Bree likes the citrus combo,” I tell him. “Is it a family thing?”
Something odd flashes in his eyes, but he takes the mini cupcake and nods. “Thank you.”
He eats this one more gingerly, still savoring every crumb. I glance down at the sample tray and try to think of what other flavors to offer. What would a guy like Mark Bracelyn enjoy? I don’t make manly-man confections like sawdust cupcakes with drizzles of pine sap or mini-cakes infused with hints of leather and charcoal briquette. But maybe something on the other end of the spectrum.
“These tend to be too sweet for some people, but—”
“Yes.” He nods. “Yes, please, I’d like to try it.”
I smile and pluck a gooey-looking confection off the edge of the tray. “You’re in luck, I had some left over from a kids’ birthday party order. This is my coconut caramel chocolate delight cupcake. It’s like those Girl Scout cookies—Samoas?—but in cupcake form.”
The sheer joy in this man’s eyes is enough to make my hand shake as I place it in the center of his massive palm. He lifts it to his mouth, and I swear on my KitchenAid mixer, I have a mini-orgasm. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way into my pants is through a man’s sweet tooth.
What? No, I didn’t just think that.
Holy shit, Chelsea, get it together.
I smooth out my apron as Mr. Tall, Gruff, and Silent polishes off his cupcake. I consider offering him more—cupcakes, not sexual favors—but what’s that expression about free milk and cow buying and—
Great, now I’m thinking about Mark Bracelyn’s hands on a pair of udders, which sooooo shouldn’t be hot, but it is.
Stop it.
I clear my throat. “So what’ll it be?” I ask. “You didn’t mention when you need the order, but I have several of these in stock. Most will take a couple days, though.”
Mark wipes his beard with a sleeve, and I realize I should have offered a napkin. He doesn’t seem to need one, though, and his beard is remarkably crumb-free. What’s it like to kiss a guy with facial hair? I’ve only experienced five-o-clock shadow, the sort of sandpaper scruff that leaves your cheeks raw and red. But Mark’s beard looks soft, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Stop thinking of this man as edible.
“I’ll take four dozen, please,” he says.
I bite my lip, not positive I’ve got that much stock. “I thought Bree only needed two dozen.”
“She does,” he says. “The extras are for me. A dozen of whatever you’ve got in stock now, and the rest can wait ‘til Friday.”
I smile and jot the order on a notepad. “Got it. You want anything specific, or a mixed batch?”
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Surprise me.”
Oh, baby.
“How about any pupcakes?” I offer.
Mark frowns. “Pupcakes?”
“Cupcakes for dogs,” I say. For some reason I just assumed he has a dog. He looks like the sort of guy who’d have a Rottweiler or maybe a blue ox named Babe. “Bree buys them all the time for Virginia Woof.”
“I should get a dog.” He says this with an earnestness that makes my heart go gooey.
“You totally should.” Good Lord, why am I advising this man on his life choices? “The Humane Society has tons of great ones. My daughter and I volunteer there every Saturday.”
This is where most guys check out. Or check my ring finger. Or ask some not-so-subtle question about the baby-daddy, even though everyone pretends not to care. Plenty of folks have heard rumors.
But Mark doesn’t blink. Just looks me in the eye, calm and steady. “Good idea.”
“Which? Volunteering at the Humane Society, or you getting a dog.”
“Yes.”
I wait for more, but there doesn’t seem to be any. His attention shifts to something over my shoulder, and he points one enormous finger. “How long’s that been like that?”
I look where he’s pointing and see the banged-up handle on the side door leading to the alley. I left it open a few inches to let the spring breeze waft through, and it’s obvious even from here that someone messed with the doorknob.
“A couple days.” I turn back to face him. “I came in the other morning and found it like that. Probably kids messing around. I haven’t had time to call the repair guy.”
Mark frowns. “May I?”
I’m not sure what he’s asking, but I nod like an idiot. “Sure.”
He lumbers around the counter, leaving his axe behind. After a few seconds of fiddling with the lock and muttering, he marches back around the counter. “Wait here.”
“I—”
The front door swings shut behind him before I can point out that I’ve got no place to go, owning the shop and everything. He’s not gone more than a minute, and when he strides back through the door, he’s carrying a battered red toolbox.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just rounds the corner and goes to the door again. There’s some hammering and rattling, a few curse words that make me glad it’s a slow weekday and there are no other customers around. I busy myself filling a bakery box with cupcakes, slipping in two extras and one of my cupcake-shaped business cards with a few words scrawled on the back.
Then I wander toward the door, watching his shoulders bunch as he works. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, revealing forearms thick and ropey with muscle. The man is huge, even kneeling on my floor.
I don’t realize how close I’ve crept until he turns his head and—
“Um,” he says.
He’s face-to-boob with me, and we’re frozen in the moment. I could step forward and feel the tickle of his beard against my breasts through the front of my T-shirt. He could lean in and whisper warm breath against my nipples, making them pucker through the lace of my bra.
But neither of us does that.
He’s first to lift his gaze, meeting my eyes through a haze that looks like the same thing buzzing through my brain. “You’re good.”
“What?”
“The door.” He gestures with a screwdriver but doesn’t break eye contact. “That should hold now. No need to call a repairman.”
I drag my eyes from his and see he’s fixed my damn door. How about that?
“Wow.” I step back at last, aware of the dizzy hum pulsing through my core. “That’s—wow. What do I owe you?”
Mark stands and hoists his toolbox, wiping a hand on his jeans. “You gave me cupcake samples.”
“Maybe a dollar’s worth of samples,” I point out. “A repairman would charge at least a hundred.”
“You can give me a pupcake,” he says. “When I get my dog.”
He gives me a small smile, but I don’t think he’s kidding. I do think he’s considering kissing me. I want him to, Jesus God, I want him to, and it’s the craziest thing ever.
But he turns and lumbers back around the counter. Setting down the toolbox, he fishes into his pocket and comes up with a battered leather wallet. “For the four-dozen cupcakes,” he says, laying four hundred-dollar bills on the counter as my jaw falls open.