“See you in four minutes,” he teased, eyes sparkling with silent laughter. And okay, I was temporarily mad at him for doing this to me, but he was so pretty when he laughed that I couldn’t hold onto the feeling.
That probably meant I was in trouble.
* * *
I walkedinto Mr. Lewis’s kitchen after fixing the shower, sweating straight through my shirt and desperate for a glass of water. I’d had to pull the whole thing apart to fix it, and the sun wasnotfucking around today.
The kitchen was a disaster zone, bowls and equipment everywhere—more bowls than I’d thought Mr. Lewis evenowned—and Hayden was standing in the middle of it, in jeans, an ancient band t-shirt like one of mine, and a frilly floral apron.
My already-dry throat tightened painfully.
Was this what it’d come to? There was a harassed-looking man in a floral apron standing in front of me, and my dick was showing an interest.
But this wasHayden, and he was so obviously in his element, and these jeans weren’t quite as good as the other pair but his ass was still incredible, and the bare feet were the most adorable touch.
I kind of wanted him to bend me over the counter while he waited for the ice cream machine to finish whatever it was doing. Making ice cream, probably.
How long did that take?
“Wes!” Hayden enthused as he saw me, which wasn’t doinganythingto discourage my dick. He looked at me like I was exciting, like he was excited every time he saw me.
My heart did a little backflip as he smiled.
Stop that.
“Just the man I wanted to see. This needs to go in the freezer when it’s done churning, but there’s one I, uh, prepared earlier already in there. I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Here’s one I prepared earlier?” I asked, taking up Hayden’s usual spot on the opposite side of the kitchen counter.
“I’m a chef,” Hayden defended, the faintest hint of a blush coloring the ridges of his cheekbones. “We all fantasize about saying that.”
“Uh huh.” I nodded. “Whatever you say.”
“We do, some of us just won’t admit it,” Hayden said, adamant. Who was I to argue with that?
“Mere short-order cooks don’t aspire to such lofty dreams,” I said, grinning at him.
“You make the best eggs I’ve ever had,” Hayden said, offhand, like it wasn’t the biggest compliment anyone hadevergiven my cooking. “There’s nothingmereabout you.”
I was so flattered I didn’t know what to do with that. Here was award-winning pastry chef Hayden Lewis telling me that not only did helikemy eggs, they were thebest he’d ever had.
“So, ice cream?” Hayden asked.
“Hell yes, I’m dying,” I answered, excited to try whatever Hayden had come up with.
I watched his hands as he scooped a blue-green tinted ice cream from one of the Tupperware containers Mr. Lewis never used but wouldn’t throw out no matter how much space they took up. I’d figured out without him having to tell me that they’d been his wife’s.
Hayden using them did something weird to my heart, but I ignored it in favor of taking the spoon he offered me.
This wasboundto be good.
I scooped up a spoonful and put the whole thing in my mouth, eagerly anticipating cool refreshment.
My brain took a second to catch up to what I wasactuallytasting.
Don’t spit it out, I thought frantically.Don’t spit it out, you’ll insult him.
Why was it salty? Not salted caramel salty, butsalty-salty, and with a kind of…
