“I don’t tell anyone I can cook.” I twist my hands together. When he looks at me, I shrug. “I went to culinary school.” It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I advertise. Most people toss chefs and bakers into different categories, and I’m happier being classified as a baker only.
“A chef? No kidding?” He digs into his food and shoves a forkful in his mouth. The groan that rips from him is primal and starts a beat right between my thighs.
I shift in my chair. “Is it good?”
He swallows and loads his fork a second time. “It’s criminal the public doesn’t know how well you can cook.” He fills his mouth again.
I beam inside. “Not many people remember what I went to college for, and they assume it was pastry school or something. I only cook for my family. Do you mind keeping it to yourself?”
“Only if you tell me why.” He flashes me a closed-mouth grin but immediately turns serious. “Sorry. Of course I’ll keep it to myself.”
I stab my fork into my food. I’ve been hard on him and he still made sure I didn’t stay stranded. He deserves some form of explanation. “I don’t like cooking for others.” That’s not quite right, and I don’t want him to think that I resent making an omelet when I practically tackled him before he walked out the door. “I don’t likefeelinglike I have to cook for others.”
“ ‘Damn him,’ huh?”
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry. Of course he heard that. Damn me for not keeping my mouth shut. But Cruz isn’t probing for more. He’s gobbling down my food like he hasn’t eaten for days. “Yeah, damn him. Anyway, I like baking. I like making pretty things, and I like being my own boss.”
“There’s nothing like it. I can’t beat my coworkers either.”
“You seem like a good group.”
“Are you including me in that?”
I can’t tell if he’s being playful, but I’ll be honest. “Yes.”
His steady look is unreadable. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.
We finish our omelets in silence, and I try not to heave my food back up. The nerves are going to kill me. He’s either too busy eating to talk or he doesn’t want to chat with me. Another thing I didn’t think I’d miss. His chatter wasn’t generic. He always asked about me or about something to do with my job. It was personal, and at the time, I questioned its validity, but now I’m more certain he was genuine.
When we’re done eating, Cruz looks over the samples.
I push my empty plate away, grateful he’s not trying to leave as soon as possible. “I don’t have names for them yet. Except I think I’ll call the cupcake a Huckleberry Sunrise.”
“You name them like we name our cocktails.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
He carefully cuts portions off the cupcakes and the cake and serves me first on a clean plate. He breaks a cookie in half and divides it up.
All the recipes I created are simple and should stand up in the heat of the street fair in a display cooler. Billings isn’t far away, but they’ll travel well. I’ve tasted them all, yet I try a bite of each while studying his reaction.
“Damn, that’s good,” he says about the huckleberry cupcake. “We should make a shot with that vodka that has a dab of whipped cream on top.”
“Mmm, sounds good.”
His gaze sharpens on me. Heat fills his eyes, but a second later, he skates his focus back to the spiced cake and takes a bite. I slide to the edge of my chair, waiting for his reaction.
“This tastes like Thanksgiving is right around the corner.”
Triumph lifts my hopes. I’m the most insecure about the spiced cake. “Do you think it’s too heavy for summer?”
He shakes his head and cuts into the gin cupcake. His lips close around the fork and I’m riveted. The shadows of his whiskers have grown darker than they were this afternoon, and it makes his denim-blue eyes stand out more. “That tastes like a floral bouquet but not in a bad way.”
“I’ll take it.”
He smiles and bites into the cookie. His gaze flickers, he pauses, and then he continues chewing.
Oh no. He doesn’t like it. Heat singes my cheeks. “That bad?”
