Which is so not good.
I don’t fall easy. But when I do, I fall hard—and splat.
Still, the baker in me defaults to autopilot.
“So,” I say brightly after the awkward introductions, as if I’m not internally combusting.
I mean the man says he doesn’t eat sugar. Who does that?
“Are you sure I can’t get you something sweet? Cookie? Scone? Brownie bite?”
His lips twitch—barely—but I’ll take it.
“Actually,” he says, voice like a rich, dark roast, smooth and deep, “are you closing soon? I thought maybe we could talk about this.”
Ah.
There it is.
The polite rejection speech, straight from the grumpy corporate playbook.
“Oh, that.” I nod solemnly, clutching my tongs like a weapon. “The ‘this’ being how you’re here, rejecting me.”
“I—what? No, I didn’t?—”
“You are. Don’t sugarcoat it,” I say with a wink. “That’s my job.”
He exhales sharply, like the sound of a man who hasn’t been told “no” since the invention of the stock market. Clearly not used to being interrupted.
“Well, look,” he starts again, all deep voice and CEO calm, “you’re really very beautiful.”
I groan, dragging a flour-dusted hand down my face.
“Oh my God, please don’t tell me I ‘have a pretty face but need to lose fifty pounds to reach my potential.’”
He blinks, startled.
“What? No! Has someone said that to you?”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the p with all the sass of a woman who’s heard that line too many times and lived to tell the tale. “Multiple times, actually. It’s practically a mantra for men with pencil dicks.”
His jaw drops. “You have their names?”
I blink. “What? No! Why would I—wait, are you serious?”
Dead serious, apparently.
His gaze darkens, and for a second, I swear I see something dangerous flicker there.
Something primal. Protective.
“Marigold,” he says my name like it’s something sacred. “Aside from those assholes who clearly don’t deserve you telling you otherwise, I can’t believe you don’t know how hot you are.”
My brain short-circuits.
My throat goes dry.
My ovaries hold a quick emergency meeting to discuss strategy.
