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I finish my drink, placing the empty glass on the counter.

“See you later. When you come in. That is…if you come in.”

God. I’m babbling.

He grins, showing his straight, white teeth.

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

Cole sits down next to the seat I’d vacated, but he doesn’t stop looking at me.

I smile.

“See you later, Margo,” Ivy calls quietly.

“Later,” I mutter, throwing my hand up to wave at Joss when she looks up from the end of the bar.

Work’s letting out all over. Everyone’s showing up.

But I’ve got a night of baking to do. Halloween is coming.

When I’m elbow-deep in dough, all I can think about is Cole Hayes’s easy smile.

CHAPTER THREE

COLE

Iwatch Margo Reyes walk out of the Dive. She’s not exactly swinging her hips, but they’re ample enough to catch my eye anyway. That curve where her waist meets her ass, the kind of shape a man wants to grab onto. Her dark hair is loose, bouncing around her shoulders, and I let myself imagine it wrapped around my fist.

There was a reason I picked her out of a lineup. It had less to do with her wish and more to do with how fucking gorgeous she is.

I recognized her face when they sent me her picture and wish. Saw her in the Garland Falls Times a year ago, when Sugar & Coal opened up.

I thought she was pretty then, but black and white pictures don’t do her justice.

I’d told her I was in the neighborhood, and technically, I was. I’m meeting Marcus and Gabe a few blocks away at the new nightclub called Envy or something equally ridiculous.

I swivel back around to the bartender and she’s glaring at me.

“What are your intentions with my friend Margo?” she asks, pointing a knife with a lime wheel at the end at me.

The other woman at the bar quietly gets up.

“I’ve got to go. Sir Barksalot will be waiting for his dinner.”

“See you later, Ivy.”

The bartender doesn’t look at her as she walks out of the Dive.

She’s still brandishing a knife at me.

I place my glass down on the bar and raise my hands slowly like I’m in a holdup.

“No intentions. Just really wanna try her muffins.”

“I bet you do,” the bartender mutters. She’s about five-foot-nothing but I have the feeling she could put me on the ground if she was mad enough.

I snort out a laugh and finish my Scotch. I place a fifty-dollar bill down on the bar.