Brody doesn’t let go immediately.
Neither do I.
For one suspended moment, we sit there with bread between us, our legs touching, and his thumb resting lightly against the side of my finger like he’s testing how much heat one accidental touch can hold.
Apparently, a lot.
“How did it all start?” I ask.
“With a taco food truck in Austin,” he says, voice lower than before, his attention still on where our hands meet. “Bought it with bartending money, parked it near the UT campus, and made breakfast burritos until the engine died.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was filming clips of myself cooking in the truck before anyone was paying attention. Phone propped against a jar, terrible lighting, just messing around.” He gestures toward Damien, who’s curled into a loaf on the counter, tail wrapped around his body. “The first video that blew up wasn’t even supposed to be posted. Damien knocked a whole bowl of pancake batter off the counter mid-shot, and instead of cutting, I just kept rolling. People loved the disaster more than any recipe I’d ever made.”
“The birth of @DamienKnocks.”
“Exactly. After that, I stopped trying to be polished. People don’t want perfect. They want real—the cat pushing flour off the counter and me swearing and the sourdough rising wrong. All of it.” He tilts his head, and his knee presses a little more firmly against mine. Not enough to trap me. Enough to make me wonder what it would feel like if he did. “That’s what I loved about your book, by the way. It’s not a chef telling people how to cook. It’s a granddaughter telling people why cooking matters.”
My heart races at his compliment, something I never expected, and it’s ridiculous because I can handle praise. I have handled reviews, interviews, and strangers telling me my recipes made them cry. But from him, the words slide deeper withinmy feelings. They’re intimate, and I guess I’m not used to such compliments from Alphas. More specifically, from Louis.
“Where’s your family?” I ask.
“Nashville. Mom’s remarried, happy, settled. We talk every Sunday.” His jaw tightens fractionally. “My dad’s… around. We don’t talk much.”
The shift in his energy is subtle but unmistakable. “I’m sorry.”
“Ancient history.” He rolls his shoulders, shaking it off.
He refills our glasses from the jug. “You trained properly, right?” he asks, settling back against the counter.
“Seattle. Two years. Then I worked the line at a couple of restaurants and discovered that professional kitchens were slowly dismantling me.” I turn the glass in my hands, needing something to look at that isn’t his mouth or his forearms or the way his body takes up all my attention. “So I started writing.”
“That’s incredible, Claire,” he says with an impressed grin.
“You’ve built ManBaker into a huge empire,” I say, trying to make the feeling smaller before it spreads. “My little cookbook feels humble next to that.”
“Millions watch me bake shirtless with a cat. You wrote a book that will be shared with generations, with families, and cherished.” He holds my gaze, and his hand tightens around mine just enough to make my breathing change. “Don’t rank us. What you built matters.”
I stare at him, and I don’t know what to say. The pull-apart is demolished. The iced tea is nearly gone. “It’s late. I should go. I think we’ve covered everything.”
“Dress code?”
“Dressy and comfortable. No tie unless you feel compelled.”
“I’ve got it.” He winks, stands, scoops Damien off the counter, and deposits him on the couch. He immediately stretches out and begins aggressively ignoring us.
Brody walks me to his front door, opens it, and waits while I step just outside. The night air slips cool over my bare legs, the street quiet beyond the front yard. He follows me out and pulls the door closed, leaving us tucked beneath the door’s overhead cover while the whole neighborhood around us is sleeping.
He steps forward and turns to face me, but he’s closer than I expect, standing between me and the front yard, his attention settled fully on my face. My back is now flush with the door.
Somehow he’s even closer than he was a second ago. Inches away. The shadow of stubble along his jaw draws my attention, his chest rising and falling, while mine is in a race.
“Just so you know,” I say, and my voice is barely there, “I really appreciate you agreeing to play my date for the wedding. I’ll owe you big-time, and this is only a one-time thing. A favor. I don’t expect anything after Saturday. We’re just friends.”
His gaze lingers on my lips as if he knows exactly how hard I’m clinging to the door so I don’t fall over from swooning in such close proximity.
“Claire,” he says softly, “you don’t owe me for wanting to stand next to you.”
My throat forgets how to work.
“And friends?” His voice lowers, warm and rough around the edges. “Sure. We can call it that for now.”
