I lean closer. “And you cook like you’re lecturing recruits.”
The crowd eats it up. Heart emojis explode on-screen.
Another question: “What’s your favorite fall smell?”
“Caramel,” I say. “Or wet leaves.”
“Fresh dough,” he answers, glancing at me. “And apparently… trouble.”
The comments erupt.HE FLIRTEDflashes across the screen in all caps.
This time, we both laugh, and the tension between us eases. Somewhere in the noise, something warm settles between us.
By the time we close up for the night, my cheeks ache from smiling.
The last customers drift off clutching their boxes of baked goods. Tricia packs up her gear, still glowing from the high of not one but two viral posts.
“You two are magic,” she says. “Seriously—whatever happens, this was marketing gold.”
When she’s gone, the kitchen feels suddenly quiet. Just us and the hum of the cooler, the faint echo of laughter outside.
Chase wipes down the counter beside me. “So. Shipping, huh?”
“Apparently we’re the internet’s new favorite couple,” I say, tossing a rag into the hamper. “Should we send thank-you notes?”
He smirks. “Maybe an itemized receipt.”
I laugh, turning to rinse a bowl. He steps in beside me to grab a pan, and the space shrinks until there’s no safe distance left. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the scrape of his sleeve against mine.
“You did good today,” he says quietly.
“So did you. Though I think I’m still ahead.”
“Dream on, Cronut.”
We’re both smiling now, too close, too wired to step back. There’s flour on his cheek. I reach up without thinking, swipe it away with my thumb. His breath catches. Mine stops.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Can’t have the cameras see me messy.”
“No,” I whisper. “Not the cameras.”
And then he kisses me.
It feels sudden, yet somehow perfectly planned.
It’s warm and sure and absolutely ruinous. It’s the kind of kiss that steals every argument you’ve been building about why you shouldn’t do this.
My hands find his shirt. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer. The world tilts and blurs into a haze of heat.
When we finally break apart, both of us are a slightly dazed.
“That was—” I start.
“—unprofessional,” he finishes, breathless. “Probably.”
“But pretty good for engagement metrics.” I grin, dizzy. “If only the cameras had been here.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “You’re impossible.”
