“Understandable,” I say, trying to sound professional about ordering a confectionary dildo.
“If Saturday works, you can pick it up then.” He scribbles something on the notepad, then looks up. “Noon?”
“That’s perfect.” Saturday gives me time to draft the perfect petty note. Maybe something like:Hope you choke on my dick this Valentine’s Day.Too much? Probably. But I’m doing it anyway.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, reaching into my purse for my wallet.
He shakes his head. “It’s on the house.”
I blink. “No, that’s… that’s not necessary. This is custom. And anatomically… ambitious.”
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling. “I know. Still on the house.”
“Why?” My suspicion kicks in. “You don’t even know me.”
His gaze darkens, turning more intent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jenna.”
A chill skates down my spine. “How do you know my name?”
He arches a brow. “You don’t remember me?”
My brain scrambles.Do I know this man?I would absolutely remember a six-foot-one walking chocolate fantasy with dimples and tattooed arms. Wouldn’t I?
“Should I?” I ask slowly.
He leans forward, his forearms braced on the glassy surface. The pose brings us closer, and I catch a whiff of his scent, something spicy and woodsy with a hint of cocoa and vanilla. It’s subtle but potent, and incredibly addictive.
“That’s a little disappointing,” he murmurs. “All those years, and you forgot all about me.”
Years? My brows knit together while my brain processes this information. “Did we go to school together?” Maple Ridge High wasn’tthatbig. Maybe he was in a different graduating class or something.
He just smiles, lazy and secretive. “Don’t worry about it.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “No, now I am worried about it. Do you have any idea how creepy that is? You know my name, but I have no clue who you are.”
His gaze flicks down my body and back up, slower this time, like he’s giving me a once-over I can feel.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dipping, “if I wanted to be creepy, you’d know.”
My cheeks flame. “That’s not?—”
He straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the seriousness. “Anyway.” He scribbles something else down, then rips the slip off the pad and slides it across the counter. “Order ticket for Saturday. Just give me your number in case I need to confirm any, uh, measurements.”
Oh my God.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I mutter as I write my number on the slip. My hands are slightly shaky, and not just from embarrassment. Being near this man feels like standing too close to the sun, hot and very dangerous.
“At least I’m honest about it,” he says.
I slide the ticket back to him. “So you’re seriously not going to tell me who you are?”
He tucks the paper under the counter and rests his forearms on the marble again. Up close, I can see the faint white marks of old acne scars along his jaw, mostly hidden by stubble. It makes him look real. Human. Like he hasn’t always been this jaw-dropping, fully-formed Greek god of cocoa.
“Nah,” he says finally. “This is more fun.”
“Fun for who?”
He tips his head, considering. Then he gives me a slow grin that makes my toes curl in my sensible heels. “Me.”
