“Artsy?” I suggest. “Strange?”
He shakes his head. “No, not strange. I like her. She’s…creative. I was going to say interesting, but I thought you might assume I meant it sarcastically. But shereallyis interesting. She told me she took you to Thailand for four months when you were two.”
When did Miles talk to my mother without me? “I wasn’t even two yet. She bought the ticket on impulse when she realized that I wouldn’t be able to fly for free for very much longer. My dad didn’t even come. We went to Thailand again when I was twelve so I could remember the trip.” I grab the cake from the flower cooler and put the pink bakery box on the counter in front of us. The plastic window shows a small square of cake decorated with white butter cream and a riot of pink hearts and flowers. I assume Miles, the skeptic of all things lovey-dovey, hates the look of this cake. I find two forks in the junk drawer under the counter.
Miles isn’t looking at the cake at all. He’s looking at me. I raise a brow.
“I should have said it before, but your hair looks nice,” he finally says. I laugh and touch the strands draped over my left shoulder.
I smile. “You’ve never seen it straightened.”
“It’s longer than I thought,” he says. “You look so different tonight. Still you, but different.”
I grin. “And then I open my mouth and I’m still me.” I open the cake box and carefully lift the cake out. “What do you think?” I ask. There are even more hearts on the sides of the cake, along with piped shells and swoopy lines. I cringe. “This cake looks more like me than I do tonight.”
His eyes narrow, inspecting it. “It is a bit…”
“Even I agree it’s a bit much,” I say. “I think the Cakes for Two is a great idea, but we’re going to have to talk to Mrs. Kotch about… understated elegance.”
“I feel like I might get diabetes just looking at it.”
I shake my head. “Mrs. Kotch’s cakes aren’t as sweet as they look. Her buttercream is as light as air. Have you had her black forest?”
He shakes his head.
I hand him a fork. “You’re in for a treat. She’s anartist.”
Miles takes the first bite of cake. I’m not surprised to see that under the fluffy white frosting, the cake itself is red. Of course she’d use red velvet for a love cake.
He puts the bite in his mouth, and I watch his face to see his reaction. I can’t believe I once thought he was stingy with his smiles. Sometimes his expressions are small, but he does smile. A lot.
And since I’ve become a bit of an expert on Miles’s expressions, I can see the moment his eyes widen and his forehead smooths. Eventually, his mouth turns up slightly in the corners when he realizes that the trite red and pink cake is actually one of the best things he’s ever eaten. He’s so cute when he’s genuinely happy.
“I told you it would be delicious.”
He nods. “I think I need to try her other cakes.” He looks down at the rest of the square of cake on the counter. “This looks more like a cake for four than a cake for two, though.”
“It’senormous. I think we can rise to the challenge.” I take a bite, and the cake is amazing. The frosting is light with a hint of tang from cream cheese, and the cake itself is tender with a delicate crumb and mild chocolate and vanilla flavor. I moan with pleasure. “This was such a good idea. I guarantee this is better than the cream puffs at my prom. I am most decidedly hashtag team cake.”
He looks confused, so I explain. “Everyone is either team cake or team pie. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good pie, but between a good cake and a good pie, cake will always win.” I take another bite. Mrs. Kotch’s cakes are always sublime.
Miles takes another bite. “I think I’m team cake too. Even though I usually prefer savory over sweet. But this cake is delicious.”
I realize that even though two out of three dates I’ve set him up on revolved around food, I don’t know what Miles likes to eat. Other than chocolate-covered gingerbread. And now, cake. “What’s your favorite food in the city?”
He pauses, thinking. It’s a hard question—Toronto has such a huge food scene. “Going to have to go with the papri chaat at my uncle’s restaurant. I know I’m biased, but it really isthatgood. Better than I’ve had anywhere else.”
I slap his arm lightly. “Shut. Up. You have an uncle with anIndian restaurant?”
“Yeah. My dad’s brother has a place in the West End. Indian street food.”
“Oooh, how’s their pani puri?”
He grins proudly. “The best in the city.”
“I’m going to have to try it. Pani puri is easily my favorite Indian dish. I usually get them from the sidewalk vendors on Gerrard, but I have to be careful not to get them too often because I can eat, like, two dozen in one sitting.” That makes Miles tilt his head back and laugh, and I can’t help but feel my insides warm. “Hey, mind if we sit?” I ask. “These shoes are killing me.”
A few minutes later we’re sprawled on the floor of the flower shop on top of a blanket that my mother keeps in the back room. We’re leaning against the counter, and I have removed the strappy silver sandals I was wearing, and Miles has taken off his tie. The cake is between us, and we’re talking while taking bites of it.
