I didn’t want to impress him with some fancy layered dessert or something ridiculous with gold leaf.
I wanted to hand him something warm and sweet and made with intention. Made with him in mind. So I was going to bake the best dang almond cookies this town had ever seen.
My special ones, the ones with honey glaze, the perfect chewy texture, a whisper of orange zest, and a sprinkle of flaky sea salt right before they cooled.
Because maybe a cookie couldn’t change a guy’s mind, but it could make him smile. And that? That would be enough for now.
* * *
RAFAEL
I was ready to put the entire day behind me and go home.
The bakery smelled like sugar and cinnamon, warm and comforting. but I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. My back ached, my feet hurt, and Beau was supposed to be helping me close up, but where was he?
Upstairs, sorting through invoices because some supplier shipped us thirty pounds of rye flour instead of wheat.
Typical.
I shoved a tray into the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary and grumbled under my breath.
The front lights were dimmed, chairs flipped, and the bell over the door should’ve stayed silent for the rest of the night.
Instead, it jingled.
“We’re closed,” I barked automatically, not even looking up.
“Yeah, I figured.” That voice was too chipper for this late in the day, and far too familiar.
I turned toward the front, and there he was.
James stood in the entrance, apron still tied around his waist, strands of his dark hair falling into his eyes.
He held a small pastry box in one hand, a playful grin dancing at the corners of his mouth like this was some kind of casual drop-by and not a direct assault on my peace and quiet.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt.
“Returning the favor,” he said. “You dropped off that misdelivered package the other day. I figured I’d bring you something sweet in return.”
He stepped forward, ignoring my scowl, and set the box down on the counter beside the register.
“Almond cookies. My specialty. Figured it’s only fair you taste what we’re working with across the street.”
I stared at the box, then at him.
“There’s also a note,” he added. “But, uh, don’t take the pun too seriously.”
I lifted the corner of the lid and spotted the handwritten card tucked between the cookies.
“Hope these aren’t too nutty. –J”
I stared at it a little too long.
Before I could gather a single response, which was probably along the lines of something neutral, gruff, preferably non-flustered, James was already backing toward the door.
“Anyway. Have a good night, Grumpy Bear,” he said, tossing me a wink.
The door jingled again, and he was gone.
