“Well, don’t get too close to me, then,” he says, smirking as he grabs a piece of yellow cake from the display. “I don’t want to get sick too.” He looks so different from just a moment ago, much more amused and relaxed, and I can tell he’s enjoying himself. Who knows, maybe the past week was hard for him too?
“Come sit with me,” he says, as he steps away from the counter and points to one of the tables. My heart flutters again. “And tell me what you think.”
He places the plate with the yellow cake on the table, scrapes the opposite chair back, and sits down, silently inviting me to do the same.
“Aren’t you going to have any?”
He shakes his head. “I already know what it tastes like.”
I sit down in front of him and stare at the plate. Honestly, I’m unsure if I should have cake right now. I’ve been surviving on a very meager diet the past week, and now to switch to cake? I especially hope it’s not as bad as the last one. Just thinking about that prune cake makes me a little queasy. But I don’t believe Luc would do that to me. He doesn’t strike me as a cruel person.
And so, carefully, I use my fork to slice a small piece of cake off and slowly bring it to my mouth, hoping my stomach won’t punish me for this later. But when the flavor hits my mouth, it’s like my taste buds explode. Wow, this is amazing! It’s creamyand fluffy, just the right balance of sweet and sour, and it’s soft and warm on my tongue. It tastes like lemon, and I love it. I’m even inclined to think my body is grateful for the change of diet.
“Wow, this is great!” I tell him, taking another, bigger bite.
His face breaks into a smile. “I know. I made itmyself.”
I almost choke on the cake. “You did?!”
He nods. “I don’t just sell cakes. I also make them.”
“And this is lemon, isn’t it?”
“It is. I thought you might like that. Or I hoped you would anyway.” His face turns a little red. “It’s my favorite.”
“Well, you’re really good at it.” A thought occurs to me, making me chuckle. “Tell me, Luc. At any point, did you start wondering whether your prune cake had driven me away for good? Worried you wouldn’t get a chance to sell me something tasty?”
“A little bit.”
My smile widens. “You know it’s going to take more for me to leave you alone than just that.”
“I do now, yes.”
So, that confirms it; he definitely thought of me when I was away. Things are looking good. If this continues, maybe I’ll successfully tear down his walls one day.
“So, do you run this place alone?” I ask him after swallowing another piece of cake. “I barely see anyone else here but you.”
“No, I run it withmydad. He owns the store and comes in the morning to bake cakes and help customers. That’s our busiest time. In the afternoon, I’m alone. Maybe if you came earlier, you could see him.” Suddenly, he falls silent and blushes, possibly because he just suggested introducing me to his dad. “Or not.”
I must say, I don’t like the idea much either. His dad might not be much older than me, and I’d prefer it if Luc’s not confronted with that so soon. He might lose interest in me, which I can’t afford to happen.
Instead of replying, I focus on the cake. While eating, some of it accidentally lands next to my lip.
It makes him laugh, and he seems happy for the opportunity to turn the topic away from his father. “You eat like a pig.”
“Did you ever consider I do that on purpose?” I ask jokingly. “Get myself covered in cake, hoping you’ll wipe it off? Or better yet, lick it off?”
“You’re so gross,” he says, but the way his longing gaze lands on my mouth for several seconds too long tells me he doesn’t mean it.
“You missed me,” I say, wondering if I’m pressing my luck. I grab a napkin from the holder to clean my face. “Just admit it.”
He lifts his chin and looks straight at me. “I’ll admit you have a way of making things more interesting around here.”
I smile flirtatiously and lean toward him. “Then how about you let me make it up to you by taking you out on a date?”
“I only date French guys,” he instantly replies, causing disappointment to fill me. It’s strange how far I’m willing to go to be what he wants, but no matter what I do, I could never be French. Regardless of how much I pretend, I know he’ll never see me that way.
“Oh,” I reply, leaning back in the chair, not bothering to hide my disappointment.
