“Because efficiency is what everyone wants at a celebration of love,” I said with a sweet smile that I knew he could see right through. I accepted another sample from Lillianna—a decadent chocolate cake with espresso buttercream—and deliberately brought the fork to my lips. Instead of taking a quick bite, I slid the cake slowly into my mouth, closing my eyes as if in ecstasy.
“Oh my god,” I moaned, perhaps a touch dramatically. “This is incredible.”
When I opened my eyes, Hudson was watching me with an intensity that sent heat spiraling through my body. His knuckles were white around his own fork. Score one for me.
“I believe what Ms. Landry means,” Hudson said to the clients, his knee briefly brushing mine under the table before he shifted away, “is that there’s value in both approaches. Perhaps a compromise. A structurally sound design with deconstructed elements asaccent pieces.”
I blinked. Had he just... supported my idea? In his own controlling, perfectionist way?
“I like that.” Lia nodded enthusiastically.
“Sounds wonderful,” Manny added, squeezing her hand.
I forced myself not to roll my eyes at the cheesiness, though I caught Hudson suppressing a similar reaction. Maybe we had something in common after all; a low tolerance for public displays of saccharine affection.
“Let’s taste another, shall we?” Lillianna suggested.
For the next sample—the vanilla bean cake with raspberry filling—I tried a different tactic. I let a tiny bit of the raspberry jam linger on my lower lip, then slowly licked it off, my gaze meeting Hudson’s as I did. His pupils dilated, and he shifted in his chair. The man was as predictable as the moon’s phases.
“The raspberry really comes through,” I said, running the pad of my thumb along my lip.
Hudson cleared his throat. “The texture is excellent,” he managed, his voice rougher than before. “Very delicious.”
“Mmm, definitely,” I agreed, dragging my finger through a bit of leftover frosting on my plate and bringing it to my lips. “I love how it melts on the tongue.”
Manny and Lia were busy discussing the flavor profile with Lillianna, oblivious to the silent battle happening across the table. Hudson’s expression remained professional, but the muscles worked in his jaw and his nostrils flared as he watched my finger disappear between my lips.
“The notes of honey are sublime,” I said when we moved to the next sample.
As I spoke, I let my foot gently brush against Hudson’s ankle under the table. His attention snapped to me, a warning somewhere in there that I completely ignored. In fact, I widened my eyes innocently and took another bite, letting out a small, satisfied sigh.
“The flavor balance is excellent,” he agreed, his voice controlled despite the tension in his shoulders. “Though the structure could be more stable for a summer event. The cream might not hold up in warmer temperatures.”
My traitorous mind focused on Hudson’s movements. The way he aligned his fork between bites, how he dabbed his mouth with his napkin after each taste, the careful way he made notes on his tablet. It was like watching someone perform a ritual, and it was strangely mesmerizing. Annoying, but mesmerizing.
A smudge of cream lingered at the corner of his mouth. My fingers itched with the urge to reach over and wipe it away. Or better yet, to lean across the table and lick it off.
Shit.
When had he turned the tables on me? Was he doing it on purpose like I had been? Shit. Shit. Shit.
Manny’s phone rang. He checked it with a frown. “I’m so sorry. There’s an issue at one of my restaurants that requires my immediate attention.”
“I should go with him,” Lia said, already standing.
“Of course,” Hudson and I said in unison.
“Please continue the tasting,” Manny insisted. “We trust your judgment. Just narrow it down to the top three options, and we’ll make the final decision.”
“Lillianna, the zabaglione with blackberry is definitely still in the running,” Lia called as they hurried out.
And just like that, we were alone. Well, almost. Lillianna excused herself to take a call from another client, promising to return in fifteen minutes.
Hudson and I sat in silence, the table between us covered in half-eaten cake samples and abandoned tasting notes.
“What the hell were you doing?” He asked finally, breaking the silence. “Trying to turn me on?”
I snorted. “You wish.”
