“I contacted her publisher. Explained I was a fan.” He shrugged like it was nothing. Like tracking down an indie romance author and convincing her to sign a personalized copy was just a thing people did on a Tuesday. “She was very accommodating.”
“Caelan.”
“Do you like it?”
I looked at the book. At the signature. At this ridiculous man who went out of his way to give me a gift this thoughtful and personal and completely unnecessary.
“I love it,” I said quietly. “Thank you.”
His whole face transformed. The hope that had been hiding in his eyes burst into full bloom, a smile spreading across his face that made him look younger and softer.
“Good,” he said. “That’s... good.”
We stood there for a moment, holding eye contact…Then my stomach growled loud enough to echo off the walls, and the moment broke into laughter.
We ate pastries at my tiny kitchen table, knees almost bumping in the cramped space, and I learned that Caelan had strong opinions about baked goods.
“The croissants here are adequate,” he said, waving a half-eaten one for emphasis. “But in the bakeries where I grew up, they were better. More layers. More butter.”
“Americans are stingy with butter?” That was a first.
“Very stingy.” He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Where I come from, we believe butter is a...” He paused, and I caught the way he adjusted mid-sentence. “...human right.”
“Human right,” I repeated. “That’s a strong stance.”
“I have many strong stances.”
The way he said it made heat pool in my stomach. Being honest, everything he did made heat pool in my stomach. I was living in a constant state of horniness lately. I shoved a croissant in my mouth to avoid responding.
He watched me chew, amusement flickering in his expression. “That’s the third croissant you’ve used to avoid talking to me.”
I swallowed. “I’m not avoiding. I’m eating. You brought food. It would be rude not to eat it.”
“You shoved an entire pastry in your mouth the moment I said something that made you blush.”
“I didn’t blush.”
“Your cheeks are pink right now.”
“That’s... a medical condition.”
“A medical condition that only appears when I flirt with you?”
“You’re not flirting.”
“I’m absolutely flirting.” He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “I’m being very obvious about it. I thought you’d appreciate the transparency.”
“I appreciate the pastries.”
“And the flirting?”
I grabbed another croissant. He laughed.
We talked for hours. About nothing and everything. About my writing, I told him about the book I was working on, a friends-to-lovers romance about a mysterious stranger who wasn’t at all based on anyone I knew, definitely not, why would he ask that.
“Mysterious stranger,” he repeated. “What’s he like?”
“Tall, blonde, intense, has a weird accent.” I realized what I was saying and backtracked. “I mean, brunette. Short. Very relaxed.”
