It’s perfect. Rich and chocolatey. I take a bite of the peanut butter cookie and actually close my eyes. Chewy in the middle, slightly crisp at the edges, with that perfect peanut butter flavor that’s salty and sweet at the same time.
Then I reach for a beignet, picking it up carefully because the powdered sugar situation is already precarious. The moment I lift it, a small avalanche of white powder cascades onto the plate.
I bite into it, and it’s like eating a cloud made of butter and happiness. Light, airy, still warm from the fryer. The powdered sugar coats my lips, my fingers, probably my entire face.
This is dangerous. I could eat these every day and not get tired of them.
I devour the beignet first, then the cookie, and then half the mocha before I remember my phone.
Curious to see who liked my post, I check my Instagram, which is mostly food photos, some sketches of my comic work, and an embarrassing number of cat images from the local cat café back home. I have a decent following, maybe a few thousand people, but they’re not super active.
I refresh the screen.
Two hundred and fifty likes on my recent post.
I blink. Refresh again.
Two hundred and sixty.
What?
I open the post and start scrolling through the comments, expecting people to be talking about the café or the food.
WHO IS THAT GUY IN THE BACKGROUND
OMG LOOK AT HIM
I’m not even looking at the food anymore
Please tell me you got his number
My stomach drops.
Guy? What guy?
I zoom in on my photo, scanning the background. And there, caught perfectly in the frame behind my beautiful food, is a man standing at one end of the counter.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered and muscular. He’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt that hugs him, showing off arms that suggest he lifts heavy things for fun. Low-hanging jeans. Short blond hair that’s longer on top and shaved close on the sides. And he’s staring at the cookie display like he’s making a very serious decision.
Oh, no.
I scroll through more comments.
I would climb that man like a tree
Where is this café? Asking for a friend. The friend is me.
That’s it. I’m moving to wherever this is.
Forget the beignets, I want HIM covered in powdered sugar
Someone find out who he is IMMEDIATELY
I’m watching the like count climb in real time. Three hundred. Three fifty. Four hundred.
“This is not happening,” I mutter.
But it is happening. My innocent food post is going viral because I accidentally photographed the most ridiculously attractive man in existence.
