He nodded. “All that.” His heartbeat picked up. Was he doing this? Was he really going to do this?
“Cookies?” she asked, but his answering grimace spoke volumes. “Okay, no cookies.”
“I’ll do it for the catering job, but it’s not my thing.”
“Sure.” She nodded once decisively. “And if you just do cakes, it streamlines the marketing message. So we’ll need you to make some samples to be photographed. The prettiest cakes, the smoothest icing, the plumpest flowers. Nothing but money shots.”
Erik gripped the edge of the table. His poor brain. First there was his bakery dream coming true before his eyes. Then there was this fuck-hot woman, dripping with the kind of breezy confidence that had always left him tongue-tied, shaping her lips around words like “money shot” and “plump.” And she just kept blithely talking.
“Oh! Speaking of cakes, did you want to see Richard and Byron’s color scheme? It might help with your cake ideas for them. Hang on.”
She darted from the kitchen and returned with a wisp of bright blue fabric on a hanger. “Here’s my best-maid dress. They’re doing cerulean as the main color—not blue, mind you, butcerulean—with white and gold accents.”
She dragged a chair around and hooked the hanger over the back, and Erik leaned forward to poke gingerly at the fluffy fabric. There didn’t seem to be very much of it, andnowhis synapses were firing with questions about just how low that neckline actually went.
“It’s… nice.” He grabbed his phone to snap a shot of the hue for later reference, hoping she wouldn’t notice him wincing over his inane comment.Nice.
“So, like, what do we need to do legally to make you a baker?” She tossed the question over her shoulder as she whisked the dress off the chair and walked back to her room, giving him a chance to pull his mind back up from his groin to answer. Seriously, was that strip of fabric the only thing that was going to cover her tits? He’d short-circuit if he kept thinking about it.
He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “I’ve got my food-handling certificate with the state.” Licensing. Certifications. Legalities. They were better than a cold shower. “Now I need to register a cottage food operation with Cook County. Could take a couple of weeks.”
She sauntered back into the kitchen and reclaimed her seat in front of the laptop. “So do you have the cash and the kitchen to get some things baked? The wedding cake and some samples for website photos?” She smiled approvingly at his nod. A born leader. “Cool. Let me know when, and I’ll get a photographer lined up. Next, the bio.” She clarified when he looked at her in confusion. “Your life story. Tell it to me for the website. And yes, this is mandatory.”
Damn. She’d anticipated his objection. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, and he almost told her not to bother, to let him write it. But he’d never had a way with words, and he trusted this babbling brook to get the job done for him.
With a grimace, he offered up the pertinent details. “From outside Liberty Valley, Iowa. Twenty-eight years old. Attended the Culinary Institute of America. Worked under pastry chef Philippe Bernaert for a year. Moved to Chicago last summer. Good baker.”
The last fact earned him a snort. “Good baker. That’s helpful. The people coming to your page will be relieved to hear that.” Her fingers danced across the keys, and she spoke without looking up. “Iowa, huh?”
“Yeah. Raised by my grandfather on a farm.” Erik had no idea why he was volunteering information that she wasn’t even asking for. The click of her keyboard filled the room, and suddenly he was talking again. “My mom left me with him when I was eleven.”
She looked up with a sympathetic frown, and he said, “No, it was good. Life with Mom was chaos. Fun at first to try a new town every six months, but… eventually the stability of the farm was a relief.”
God. Why was he still talking? He’d caught her mutant strain of chattiness.
She lifted her fingers from the keys, and he forced himself not to squirm while she looked him over. If he saw a trace of pity on her face, he’d dissolve into a puddle of shame.
“A farm boy,” she finally said. “Did you get that body from baling hay?”
His eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose, and she rolled her eyes.
“Oh, come on.” One burgundy-tipped fingernail waved in his direction. “The shoulders? The chest? The thighs? I told you on the train that first night, you’re basically a mythical Viking warrior.”
He felt like prize livestock at a cattle auction being sized up by her assessing eyes. “Dairy cows,” he finally said as blood rushed to his cheeks. “Feeding them, watering them. Yes, baling hay.”
“Milk does a body good apparently.” Her lips twitched as she typed.
“That and a gym membership.”
She paused over the keyboard and cocked her head. “I was scared of you that first day. Just for a second.”
“Sorry.” God, he hated that. Hated that he’d frightened her the first time he touched her. “I would never hurt you or—”
“Oh, I know that now. You make me feel safe.” She held his eyes for a moment before turning abruptly back to her computer. “So. Are you in touch with your mom?”
That was a hell of a subject change, and he was off-kilter enough to answer honestly. “Last I heard, she was in Reno. But that was two years ago, so she could be living on a Peruvian beach by now for all I know.”
Josie looked up, and the softness of her eyes kept his words flowing. Looked like he was really doing this.
