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She considered that for a moment. “Even though you live here now?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Just the way it is.”
“Interesting.” I watched her glance sweep over her little notebook. I could tell she was itching to make another note, but she stuffed the urge deep down and took another sip of coffee.
“Have dinner with me.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think better of it. It wasn’t even a request, but more of a demand. I paused, hopeful.
Caught off guard, Cass smoothed her fingers over the napkin beside her and paused. “Oh, um. I really should be prepared for tomorrow, I––”
I lifted a hand as embarrassment flooded over me. “No. I get it.” I unfolded myself from the stool and stood at her side. “The festival tomorrow is an all-day thing. Meet me here at nine and I’ll show you around.”
I turned on my heels and stomped toward the kitchen as her soft “sounds good” floated over my shoulder.
I cursed myself for being so embarrassing. Too forward. Stupid fuck. Someone like her probably had a boyfriend waiting for her at home, a pretty boy whose hobbies included the gym and looking over stock reports. She didn’t need a baker with poor people skills and an embarrassingly long dry spell mooning over her.
I took my frustrations out on a mound of dough, punching the air out and kneading it with force until I could forget the look of shock on her face when I’d all but demanded dinner. With my luck, she’d bail before I could even make it up to her tomorrow.
THREE
CASS
Why am I nervous?
It took twenty minutes to find parking downtown, and after walking three blocks to the main street, I stood in front of the Sugar Bowl like an idiot.
Huck Benton had definitely gotten under my skin.
The street around me was buzzing with excited energy. Storefronts were capitalizing on the Fireside Flannel Festival by offering discounts, hanging plaid banners, and setting up small tables on the sidewalks to catch passersby. Chalkboard signs pointing people toward the waterfront were strewn throughout the town, and far in the distance I could see tents and general commotion as the festival got underway.
Despite the light autumn breeze, it was warmer than yesterday. I saw Bootsy, the man from yesterday, only he wasn’t alone. Next to him was a man who looked exactly like him––down to the same style T-shirt and Moon Boots. They were each accepting a steaming cup of coffee and a small paper bag from the café across the street. I smiled to myself, liking the fact that it seemed Outtatowner took care of its quirky residents.
The two women from yesterday, dressed in flannel shirts tied up under their breasts and skintight denim, pushed through the door of the Sugar Bowl. I glanced down at my long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into relaxed denim.
Didn’t realize flannel was actually a requirement.
With one last determined breath, I walked through the glass door and was enveloped by the cozy comfort of the Sugar Bowl.
When the bell above the door tinkled, the eyes of the woman behind the register—the same one from yesterday—met mine, and she smiled. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you.” I stepped forward, glancing around the shop, not seeing Huck. “I’m here to meet Mr. Benton. He––”
“Yep,” she cut in. “This is for you.” The woman slid a hot cup of coffee in a to-go cup across the counter.
I reached for my purse.
“On the house.” She smiled again, something mischievous dancing in her eyes. She motioned her head toward the back. “Huck’s in the kitchen. Told me to send you in when you got here.”
I swallowed thickly. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”
I moved around the counter and toward the swinging doors that led to the back. There was something special about peeking behind the curtain and seeing where Huck worked. I had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about the way his forearms were corded with sinewy muscle and a light dusting of hair. The veins that ran their way down to his wrist were a newfound obsession, apparently.
Entering his kitchen felt like crossing a boundary I didn’t see until it was too late.
Intimate.
Like I was entering this man’s sacred space. The noise of the bakery faded away, and I was immediately hit with the scents of sugar and spices—and a warm blast from the ovens.
With his back to me, Huck stood at a gleaming silver workspace, his head held low and the expanse of his broad back taking up most of the space. As he shifted his body to the side, I could see he held a large pastry bag and was quickly swirling some kind of airy cream on top of a flaky pastry, chocolate dolloped on each center.
