“I think you mean glorified rice,” I scoff.
He studies the name once more. But still, he’s silent.
“Corbin,” I press him.
“Oh, sorry, I thought you liked edging,” he says, but it’s more like he drawls it. He’s taking his time with his words, like he’s taking his time with me. He gives me a sexy, lazy smile. My stomach flips, and my thighs ache, and I’m jumping ten steps ahead to what would have happened in the trailer if he’d pressed me against the door and satisfied all my cravings.
My gaze drifts to his hands. Big, strong hands. Long fingers. Clean nails.
Do I like edging? I think I might from him.
I force myself to look right back at those mischievous green eyes.
“I do,” I say, my voice huskier than it should be.
“Good,” he says, then steps right next to me, so close I can smell his aftershave. The scent of campfire and a summer lake teases my nose. I try not to inhale it, but I’m a sneaky little thief, and I lift my face just enough to catch a second hint of it.
My chest warms.
And my gaze stays locked on this man as he traces the words I’d written in bright pink script. Slowly, teasingly, he says each letter like he’s tasting it the way he tasted frosting on my cheek last week.
When he’s done, he turns his face to me. “I like…Afternoon Delight.”
And I’m so hot and bothered it takes me a second or ten before I process the fact that he likes my naughty bakery name.
“Really?”
“I really do,” he says, then adds more soberly, “I’d tell you if I disagreed with you. Would you tell me?”
I snap out of my haze. “I would.”
“Good. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we should be able to talk about things.”
Things like how much I want to yank him close and feel his hot, hard body on top of me? Probably not that.
“I agree,” I say, trying to clear the lust from my voice. “And we have a lot to talk about.” I let go of the sign, grab my backpack, and pat it. “Like all the things we need to do.”
“And where we’ll donate proceeds from the dog cookies to,” he says.
I smile. “Definitely the dog cookies. I have a list of everything else, and you have a project schedule. We should start with the interior. Finish priming the drywall, then paint it. And order the garage door. Well, after we pick one. I think we should do all that before we move in tables and any furniture and, of course, display cases.”
I’m babbling, but it’s working, reversing that spate of lust.
When I pause for breath, Corbin adds, “And we need to plan a menu.”
“Right. Yes, duh.” Maybe I can try to be okay with letting the town laugh at me, but right now it feels deserved. How could I forget that mission-critical detail?
“It sounds like we agree on one important thing,” he says.
“The name?” I confirm.
“No. Mornings. Fuck mornings,” he says.
“That should be our tagline.”
He arches a brow. “Deal.”
I offer a hand to shake, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t imagine him yanking me against him and running those strong hands down my dress, fiddling with the undershorts, and figuring out expertly how to maneuver everything off.
