That voice when he was with her? Not gone. But so quiet right now as to be almost negligible.
When he actually had time to sit and breathe and let his mind and body properly settle, the significance of that was patiently waiting, ready to sink in hard.
He accepted the boxes of cheesecake that the staffer passed over the counter. “I’m not sure where you got the image of yourself as a timid rabbit who bolts from confrontation. Five minutes after we met, I copped a lecture on empathy and public relations before you wandered off humming ‘Frosty the Snowman.’”
A fractional pause.
“That was different.” A frown flickered between her brows. More quietly: “It’s always been different with you.”
It was a day for some ruthless home truths. “Likewise. Apparently to a far greater extent than I realized.”
Their eyes met. Held.
Dominic’s hand tightened around the cardboard boxes. “Sylvie—”
Behind her, the door to the kitchens opened and a young woman came out. Speaking of timid rabbits . . . The stranger’s very large eyes widened, and he was surprised her nose and ears didn’t twitch before she turned tail and shot back into the kitchen.
He frowned. “What was that about?”
“What?”
“A woman I’ve never seen before in my life, who just took one look at me and scarpered.” He turned back to her thoughtfully. “Or one look at you.”
“Probably a viewer,” Sylvie said sweetly. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Well, well.” The kitchen door had opened again, and a blond man walked out, green eyes and provocative grin fixed on Sylvie. He was probably midthirties. Muscular build. A uniquely punchable face. “The head of the coven herself. In my humble little establishment.”
Not so long ago, Dominic would have said that Sylvie thoroughly disliked him. Clearly, that wasn’t the emotion directed at him now. The exact degree to which her feelings had changed, he didn’t know. But she’d never looked at him with the loathing she turned on this prick.
“‘Humble’ is not a word I’ve ever associated with you, Darren.” Her gaze flicked dismissively around the gold-standard example of staggeringly bad taste. “Nor is it the first descriptor that comes to mind in this place.”
“Always my biggest fan, Sylvie.” Darren’s smile didn’t remotely touch his eyes.
“And apparently, you’re still mine. Since half my menu seems to show up here. In a remarkably poor reflection.”
“And yet you appear to be buying from my sad shade of a menu.” Darren’s mocking stare swung to rest on Dominic. “I am honored today. Dominic De Vere.” He extended a hand. “Darren Clyde. Owner and proprietor. Your fellow judge and I have a history. Instant pals in class, weren’t we, Sylvie?”
“Well, you did copy my answers on the very first quiz,” Sylvie said. “Nobody can say you’re not consistent.”
For a person who kept insisting she lacked assertiveness, she was taking swipes with the same skill she applied to her sugar sculptures, verbally whittling Clyde down to reveal the little cockroach within. Dominic had developed an apparently endless supply of protective instincts where Sylvie was concerned, but absolutely none of them were currently required. It actually pissed him off that she would have had to curtsy at St. Giles, because this woman needed to bow to no one.
He didn’t so much as glance at Darren’s extended hand. After a moment, the plagiarizer’s fingers curled and fell away.
“Funny.” Darren divided a cool look between them. “I had the impression that you two weren’t exactly fast friends. How deceptive TV can be.”
Dominic scanned the other man from head to boots. “So this is the talentless twat who’s been stealing your recipes.”
Bristling, Darren stood taller, straightened wide shoulders.
“The one you offered to punch,” Sylvie agreed chirpily, picking up the toss with effortless ease.
“He’s a little bigger than I was expecting,” he noted, and the rigidity of her body relaxed into a sudden bubbling of laughter in her eyes. “But I’ll give it a go if you like.”
The guy actually took a step back, to his own immediate, visible aggravation.
Sylvie tilted her head. After a considering moment, she said, “That’s okay.” She didn’t look at Darren; only at Dominic. The dimple beside her lips peeped out. “I can handle myself.”
His mouth lifted. “I never doubted.”
The server came around the counter with two trays of drinks. “Here you go.”
“Thank you so much.” Sylvie took them. “I have two new sweets going into production next week. Clearly, your lonely brain cell is incapable of any original thought, Darren, so why don’t I just type out the recipes and email them straight over. Save you the trip. Little early Christmas present.”
Even the Duchess of Albany would fail to find fault with the way she exited the café.
Amusement becoming an outright grin, Dominic followed.
Outside in the bitter cold, he stood in a circle of warm light reflecting from the café windows and took one tray of drinks from her. “Such a spineless, retiring mouse.”
Sylvie huffed a half laugh. “Even the confrontation-averse have their breaking point.”
“Thanks for the drinks.”
Her fingers folded tightly around her own tray. A thick strand of lavender hair fell across her eyes before she shook it back. “You’re welcome.”
A few snowflakes drifted down over his shoulders, falling to melt on the wet stones.
Sylvie’s eyes searched his as their arms touched. When Dominic leaned in, her lips trembled under his as he kissed her. It was a lingering caress, light, gentle—until she pushed up on her tiptoes, pressing into him. They breathed each other in, the kiss deepening.
Her tongue had just stroked his, sending a pleasurable shock straight to his groin, when his phone rang.
He lifted his mouth with a muffled groan, and she dropped her head to rest briefly on his shoulder.
“I was expecting to come out of this experience sleep-deprived and hopefully many pennies wealthier,” she said into his coat. “Not internally sobbing from sexual frustration.”
Ruefully, she stepped back. “Answer it.” She took back his tray of drinks to free up one of his hands.
Dominic straightened, breathed deep. Joking comments aside, he got the frustration. His body was taut with aborted sensation, his skin prickling as if it had stretched too tight across his bones. In just a few seconds, he was infinitely more aroused than he was comfortable with on a public street, relatively deserted or not.
With a jerk, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket, checked the screen. He swiped to answer. “Liam, I hope you’re clocking out.”
“Nobody is clocking out.” Liam’s voice shot down the line. “We’ve got a problem.”
His movements stilled. “What’s the matter?”
Sylvie had been kicking her feet along the ground, also keeping moving to stay warm. She looked up swiftly.
“Last month, when Aaron was still . . . preoccupied, he took an order from Grosvenor Park Hotel.” Paper rustled. “Twelve dozen cupcakes, six hundred chocolates. Mostly Pointillist Caramels.” Their most time-consuming sweet, which had to be produced and consumed fresh. “And a five-tier cake. He forgot to record it.”