He swallows, then gives me a lazy, satisfied smile. “Damn. You just keep showing off, don’t you?”
“It’s called marketing,” I tease. “If you liked that, wait until you taste my apple pie.”
His gaze snaps to mine. The air thickens.
“Is that an invitation?” he asks, voice rougher now.
My brain stutters. “Maybe.”
A throat clears behind him.
I blink, cheeks blazing, and turn to the older gentleman waiting patiently.
“What can I get you?”
By the time I hand off his croissant and coffee, Sebastian is deep in conversation with Loretta, who has magically appeared at his elbow to “sample” more muffins.
She winks at me behind his back. I stick my tongue out at her and retreat to the kitchen.
The rest of the morning blurs into sugar and laughter. When the rush dies down around noon, Sebastian stays. I wipe down the counter while he straightens the chairs. It’s easy, comfortable. There’s something about the way we move around each other, like we’ve been doing this for years.
Every time I glance up, he’s watching me. Not in a way that makes me feel self-conscious.
In a way that makes me feelwanted.
“What time do you close?” he asks as the last customer heads out.
“Three,” I say. “Earlier on Christmas Eve.”
He nods, lips curving. “Good. I’ll be back at three-oh-one.”
I laugh. “Trying to be first in line for day-old pastries?”
“I’m trying to take you to dinner,” he says. “If you’re not too tired.”
My breath catches. “Dinner?”
“Unless you’ve got plans. Then breakfast. Or lunch. Or I could just kiss you again.”
My pulse kicks. “Dinner’s good.”
“Six o’clock,” he says, and there’s something certain in his voice. Something that makes me want to melt.
All afternoon, I hum with anticipation. I know it’s ridiculous how excited I am over a date with someone I’ve only just met a few days ago, but I can’t stop thinking about him. His mouth. His hands. The way he looks at me like Imatter.
At six on the dot, he knocks at the back door. I’ve changed into a burgundy sweater dress and black leggings. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders.
Sebastian stands on the porch, snowflakes melting in his hair, a plaid scarf loose around his neck. He’s holding a small bouquet of pine branches and red berries, tied with twine.
“These are for you,” he says gruffly. “Figured flowers wouldn’t survive the weather.”
My chest tightens. “They’re perfect.”
I grab my coat and scarf, and he walks me across the street to his truck. He opens the door for me and helps me up.
Jack never did that.
Jack barely noticed me.
