I follow suit, gulping down half of my glass. “You have a business?”
Her face gleams—no, her entire being glows with an exuberant joy. She’s inebriated, but I’m positive my buzz has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with being in her presence.
“Yeah, I sell baked goods. Anything andeverything.” She emphasizes that word and now I understand what she meant when she cheersed toeverything. “Sometimes I take requests, bake things I never have before. I also accommodate all dietary restrictions. I charge half the price, which isn’t great for my wallet, but it gives me a chance to get experience. And if my customers are happy, they spread the word.”
“Why half?” I prop my elbow on the table, laying my chin on it, absorbing her expressions and the glint in her eyes.
“Because it’s easier to convince someone to give me a chance. There’re so many bakeries and shops in New York; anyone couldsimply get their baked goods in those stores. Some are cheaper or just more convenient.”
She’s not wrong. Everywhere you turn, there’s a shop advertising croissants or donuts or whatnot. New York is a competitive city; you either have to step it up or move somewhere else where it’s not as busy.
“Consider me persuaded.”
Anna’s eyes grow wide, and she sits up straight. “What?”
“Bake me something, but charge full price.”
“Really? What do you want me to bake? Do you have any allergies? Any preferences?” She rapidly fires her questions at me. Some of her words are a bit slurred, and giggles trickle out of her mouth freely. “I can bake just about everything.”
“Yes, really.” I pluck a loose tendril from her bun and twine it around my finger. “I don’t have allergies and I’m not picky, so surprise me.”
Her eyes bounce left and right in thought, then the brightest smile lifts on her face and she nods. “I know what I’m going to bake for you. When do you want it?”
“Whenever you can make it.”
“Okay.” She beams, drinks what’s left in her glass, and pours more of the drink into it and mine. “I’d make it tonight, but I definitely shouldn’t be around an oven. Or a kitchen, for that matter. Also, no scissors. Make sure none are around me.”
I chuckle. “That’s super specific. Why no scissors?”
“Because I’ll end up cutting my hair or trimming my bangs and I’m seriously trying to grow them out.”
I brush my fingers across them, careful not to mess them up. “I’m not to be trusted with my credit card when I’m drunk. I’ll end up buying stupid shit and have no recollection of it. Or I’ll be enticed to do something idiotic, like letting my friends convince me to get a random tattoo.”
She sips her drink, eyes drifting to me over the rim. “What did you get and where?”
“Those jellyfish fromSpongeBob? They’re on my pec.” I roll my eyes, remembering waking up to my chest feeling sore. I point to where it’s located over my shirt.
“You have to show me.” She reaches for my hand and swats it away.
“I’ll show you…” I lay my hand over hers, flattening it on my chest. “But you’ll have to get a tattoo with me.”
She incredulously stares at me, brows furrowing. “Like right now?”
“Right now.” My heart thrashes at our proximity, beating far faster and harder than before. If she can feel it, she doesn’t comment.
“What would we get and where? It’s late and?—”
“This is New York. Something will be open,” I coax.
It’s such a rash thing to request, but I’m partially drunk, and being this close to her isn’t helping me think clearly.
She squeezes her eyes tight before popping them back open. “Okay, I’ll get one with you, but when you get married, you can’t tell your wife you got a tattoo with a girl you met at a club and gave an orgasm to. I don’t want to be sacrificed in the future. I have so much to live for, and Jenny wouldn’t forgive you. She’d hunt you down.”
I laugh at her ridiculousness but go along with it anyway. “She’d hunt me down? Wouldn’t your husband do that? Wait, I shouldn’t assume—do you want to get married?”
My brain is fuzzy, but I remember her telling me she’s not interested in relationships.
Dropping my hand, I lean back in my chair and take a drink.
