I look at Liam. “Did he now?”
He stands behind the counter, looking far too good for someone surrounded by flour. His eyes drag over me once, warm and slow, and then he forces them back on whatever he’s pretending to sort.
“I said you might be busy,” he says.
“You did not say that,” Maisie says. “You said she probably has a job to do.”
I put a hand over my heart. “You wound me.”
Liam mutters something under his breath that sounds like a prayer for patience.
I lean on the counter. “Relax. I’m here for work.”
He gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me.
“Festival stuff,” I clarify.
“Mhm,” he says, unconvinced.
I ignore the way my pulse jumps at the sound of his voice. I ignore the way his eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before he shuts the expression down.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
“Have you tasted the new samples?” I ask.
“What new samples?”
“The ones I need for the gala table.”
He looks confused. “We finalized that yesterday.”
“Great,” I say brightly. “Now we’ll finalize it better.”
He exhales, long and slow. “I knew you were trouble.”
Maisie gasps. “Daddy.”
“It’s true,” he says.
“I take it as a compliment,” I tell him.
“I know,” he answers, and something warm flickers between us before he turns away.
I follow him to the prep table because I am absolutely not done annoying him.
“What if we add a chocolate-hazelnut mini tart to the lineup?” I suggest.
Liam doesn’t turn around. “We are not adding anything.”
“We could.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you already changed the menu twice.”
I shrug. “I like to improve things.”
