“Oh,” I manage. “That’s too bad.”
“Yes. It is,” she agrees with a frown. “And if you can believe it, I had to cancel the last tasting appointment, because thewedding plannercame instead of the couple.” She shakes her head. “What if she’d chosen a flavor they hated? I’ll tell you what would have happened: someone would’ve gotten blamed, and that someone isme.”
I’m immediately taken aback by how unprofessional Val’s new assistant is, but unfortunately, it’s not the biggest issue at hand. Dread settles like an anchor in my stomach as I realize I’ll somehow need to reschedule this tasting on an already impossibly tight timelineandconvince Calvin and Brooke to do it themselves. But then Jude steps forward and holds out his hand.
“That’s unbelievable,” he says as she takes it. “Who wouldn’t want to choose their own wedding cake? I’m Calvin, by the way, and this is my fiancée, Brooke. I don’t think we got your name though…” He trails off, letting her fill in the blank he’s left. Meanwhile, I try not to look like I’ve just been smacked directly in the face with a pillow embroidered with the wordsBAD IDEA.
“Actually,” I squeak, but our grumpy host has no eyes or ears for me.
“Betty,” she answers, seeming to fully register Jude for the first time.
“Lovely,” he responds warmly, before taking his hand back to tug my waist against his. The sudden feeling of his warm body against mine turns my stomach into an electric squiggle, and a nervous, nonsensical laugh ejects from me. Luckily, Betty barely spares me a glance.
“I can’t imagine that dropping everything to do a tasting is very convenient with all your rush orders,” Jude says to her. “If it’s easier, you could just bring the samples and get back to work. We’ll leave a note for Valerie about our choices.”
At this point, Betty may as well be a pool of melted chocolate in the center of his palm. “Oh, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all,” she says, patting her hairnet. “Just give me a moment.”
She walks off with a coy smile at Jude over her aproned shoulder, and I’m left gawping up at him, still snug against his hip.
“Okay, Casanova, this wasnotthe plan,” I whisper-yell. “I don’t want to be fake-engaged to you!”
He smiles down at me. “You do if you want to check this task off your list, Brookey.”
I clench my teeth. I do love checking things off my list, dammit.
“You are the most—”
“Charming improviser?” he finishes for me before leaning closer. His voice is a low whisper that travels along every one of my nerve endings. “How much do you want to bet she’s going to bring us extra cake from the other tasting?”
But I don’t get to tell him what I think because, for one, his grip on my waist has eliminated my ability to speak, and secondly, Betty is back. When she sets down a platter with eight hefty slices of cake on the table, I feel Jude’s nearly silent I-Told-You-So chuckle against my ribs and discreetly kick his foot. He responds by leaning down to nuzzle my hair, which my body registers as a seismic event. Mybrainmay know this is all for show, but my pounding heart sure doesn’t.
“Young love,” Betty says with a sigh, her crinkled blue eyes twinkling in a complete mood reversal. “I know you only ordered four samples,” she goes on, “but since you two actually showed up for your tasting, you may as well have the other order, too.”
“Betty, you shouldn’t have,” Jude says, like he’s been getting extra helpings from her his whole life. “But my angeldoesdeserve every option,” he says, before booping me on the nose.
My jaw goes slack.Angel?I’m half-tempted to feel his forehead for a fever when he smirks at me. Just a tilt of his wide mouth, and I realize he’s messing with me. No.Challengingme.
The game? Who can be more cringe. The prize? Not having to face the nightmare of rescheduling this appointment.
For a second, I nearly laugh, but then all my mental spiraling stops as I meet his gaze. Beneath the traces of humor, there’s something else. A silent understanding that if we’re only playing a game, then all of this physical contact doesn’t have to mean anything. If it’s just a game, then I can touch him, too.
And just like that, nothing seems more important than proving thatcringeis basically my middle name.
“Now. As you know,” Betty says, “Valerie is known for her unique flavors, but I canalwaystell what someone’s favorite will be.”
She squints an eye and slowly lets her gaze travel down the length of Jude. I have to wonder how she thinks his crotch is capable of communicating whether he’s a Funfetti or lemon meringue guy, but when her gaze returns to eye level, she says decisively, “Valrhona chocolate and espresso. Complex, dark, and decadent.”
Jude makes an approving hum I feel against my rib cage as Betty turns her gimlet eye to me with far less interest. Suddenly, I’m terrified of losing this game and all my dignity by being equated to fruitcake—boring and universally disliked. On an impulse that feels like a shooting star in my chest, I turn to press myself fully against Jude. Lying a hand on his chest, I look up at him with the most lovesick gaze I can muster and try to keep a straight face.
“How did she know, sugar bear?” At the stupid nickname, he has to pass a snort off as a cough, and I try not to grin in victory. Instead, I turn my head to give Betty a long-suffering look. “I can’t keep any dark chocolate in the house. Or coffee for that matter!”
She chuckles, pleased that I’ve confirmed her guess, and I beam back at her as a sparkling, first-sip-of-champagne feeling goes straight to my head.
“Guilty as charged, rose petal,” Jude responds, placing his warm hand over the back of mine and pressing it to his alarmingly sculpted chest.
I try to get a grip on reality, but it’s slippery at best. When his thumb starts idly stroking my captured hand, a mental image flashes through my mind so vivid and inappropriate, I have to swallow a quiet gasp. Me, pressing my lips to his blunt fingertips; him, sliding them into my open mouth.
Heat surges between my legs, and I try blinking the image away, but apparently, it’s been permanently branded behind my eyes. To make matters infinitely worse, Jude is staring down at me like he knows—like he’s watching the same private movie as I am and—
