The older woman stands at the register, a pristine white bakery box in her hands, gray curls pinned perfectly in place, lips parted in scandalized horror. Her watery blue eyes blink up at me like I’ve just kicked a puppy and slapped Jesus.
“Oh! Mrs. Schumacher.” I slap a hand over my mouth, heat rushing up my neck. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you were here. I wasn’t talking about… I mean, I was… but—” I trail off, wishingthe floor would open up and swallow me. “I was just joking.” A nervous laugh escapes me while my cheeks flame red.
She tsks and shakes her head, clutching the box tighter to her chest. “Young people these days,” she mutters. “No shame at all.”
Fantastic. I’ve traumatized a senior citizen before noon.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, stepping aside to hold the door open for her. “Have a great day, Mrs. Schumacher.”
She huffs, sliding past me like I’m contagious. “Your mother would faint if she heard you speaking like that, Jenna Marie Howard.”
She uses my full name, and we both know she’s not wrong.
Once she shuffles out onto the sidewalk, I drop my head back and close my eyes, exhaling through my nose.Smooth. Real smooth.When I right my posture and look ahead, the shop is empty except for me and the man behind the counter.
And speaking of the man behind the counter… Wow. Just wow.
He’s standing with one hand braced on the shiny marble top, watching me with an expression that’s equal parts amused and intrigued. He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Dark-brown hair that looks like he’s run his fingers through it a few times. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Soulful brown eyes framed by thick lashes that should be illegal.
And that’s just his face.
He’s wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket that fits him like it was tailored—snug across his chest and biceps, and nipped at his trim waist. The wordsMaster Chocolatierare embroidered over his right pec in elegant script. From the way the fabric strains, I’d guess both pecs are equally muscular, but my brain fixates on the one.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms lightly sprinkled with dark hair and vibrantink. Full sleeve tattoos curl up both arms, black and gray lines disappearing under the cuff. I have a thing for forearms. And tattoos. And forearms with tattoos. So, naturally, I stand here staring at this man like a lunatic.
He clears his throat, his deep voice rumbling across the room. “Can I help you?”
I jerk, realizing this is probably the second time he’s asked. “Yes. Sorry. I—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Had a moment.”
The corners of his mouth tug up, slow and deliberate. A dimple appears in his left cheek, and something low in my stomach flips over.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter. “I caught the tail end of that moment.”
My face ignites. “Right. That.”
He watches me for a beat, his eyes warm and curious, like he’s cataloging every detail. It should be unnerving, but instead I feel…admired? Which is dangerous. I’m too freshly divorced to handle being noticed by a man who looks like that.
I straighten my spine and force my shoulders back, channeling the inner confidence I definitely do not currently have.
“I’d like to place an order,” I say, aiming for calm and landing somewhere in the neighborhood of breathless.
His lips quirk. “For…?” He lifts his brows, inviting me to say it.
I narrow my eyes. “You heard me.”
His gaze drops briefly, taking me in from head to toe. My black pencil skirt and pointed-toe heels. A blush-pink sweater that flatters my curvy shape. Mid-length blonde hair that I hastily curled this morning in an attempt to not look like a depressed swamp creature.
When his eyes return to mine, they shine with humor and something else I can’t quite name. “I just want to make sureI’ve got it right,” he replies. “You want…” He pauses, his voice dipping slightly. “The biggestdickI have.”
It’s official. I just died.
“That’s… yes. Achocolateone, to be precise.” I pull myself together and push a hand through my hair, my fingers catching on a knot that I try to ignore. “It’s a gift. For… an acquaintance.”
“Well, I figured it wasn’t for Mrs. Schumacher,” he deadpans.
A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and surprised. “God, no. Pretty sure that old woman hates me.”
He smiles wider at the sound, like he’s pleased he earned it. “Alright, princess. I can work with that.”
