“Says me.” I place a blueberry muffin on the counter and she grabs it, running for the door.
“Love you,” she says out the door.
“For the love of rock n’ roll, don’t tell your dad I gave you a muffin.”
“I won’t.”
“Why do I get the feeling we’ve both been played?” Constantine asks.
I laugh. “We weren’t played. We were Kayed.”
“Who is she?”
“Ever heard of Hall of Fame?”
“Yeah, Leo is a super fan.”
I walk over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re about to win the Brother of the Century award.”
Constantine’s eyes widen and the skin beneath them takes on a little color. I didn’t know he had freckles. The tiniest, prettiest freckles.
I jump when I hear the door open again and clear my throat. “Yeah…um…Leo will be surprised. You’re getting total bro points there.”
“Sure.” He goes back to the kitchen, leaving me with my embarrassment and the new customer.
What was I thinking touching him? I mean, it was innocent enough, but where was my mind going? If Constantine leaves because of me, I’ll never forgive myself. He’s by far the best thing that’s happened to Bittersweet, and I can’t afford to lose him.
6
CONSTANTINE
I hidein the kitchen the rest of the day. By the time Bittersweet closes, you can’t tell anyone’s ever baked a single muffin in it because I’ve scrubbed every surface like I’m competing against Cinderella.
Okay, maybe I’m freaking out a little here. Julius smells nice. Likereallynice. And he’s so tall and big. His arms are like tree trunks and he’s…everywhere.
Bittersweet isn’t a huge place, and we work well together. Me in the kitchen baking to my heart’s content and him in the front making coffee and talking to his customers.
I’ve seen firsthand how adored he is by everyone in town.
And when he said yes to helping the kid with her fundraiser without even knowing what it was for?
Be still my little heart.
Who can blame me for having a tiny, little, minuscule, barely there crush on my boss?
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kitchen so clean that I could lick the counter,” Julius says, taking his apron off.
“Don’t.” I chuckle.
“You don’t have to do everything on your own, you know? I’m happy to clean up. You put in more than enough hours just baking.”
I shrug. “It’s ingrained in me. Years of military service.”
“You were in the military?”
“Michelin-star restaurant kitchen. Same thing.”
He smiles, and those dimples that make me weak in the knees appear.
