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I tried. I really did.
"Uh, sure," I mumbled, pulse racing at the thought of being near her.
"Great! I'll be right there!" She disappeared from view.
I massaged my temples. "You're just tasting her baking, Cole," I mumbled. "That's it. Then you'll part ways. She'll go back to her life, and you'll go back to fantasizing about what’s under her apr—"
"Shall I come around the front?" Elara reappeared with a plate of delicate-looking pastries and a knife.
"Mmhmm." I went to let her in.
She was a vision—full breasts straining against her apron, wide green eyes always seeming to smile, peach-soft skin begging to be touched. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I know you're swamped. It's just . . . I'm practicing for an assessment for pastry school."
"No worries," I said, guiding her out to the picnic table I kept for the girls. We sat down, the pastries between us.
"I've been working on these for days. Finessing the recipe."
"Finessing, huh?"
"Trying to get them perfect." Her eyes widened a little. I'd noticed that about her. When she got excited, her eyes almost pulsed with delight. "It's for the Pierre Trouffant Pastry Academy in New York. I've applied but haven't heard back yet. I'm practicing in case I get an interview. Have you heard of it? They've produced more Michelin-starred pastry chefs than any other school in the country!" Her enthusiasm was infectious.
"Trouffant?" I asked, trying to pretend I'd heard of him before. "Sounds impressive. So, they only take people who can already bake perfect cakes? Maybe that's why so many students get the thingamajig stars, because they're already good."
God, Cole, you oaf.
Elara shook her head. "No, they take all skill levels, but it's insanely competitive. I need an objective taster, and Anthony has already reached his limit." She gestured to her dog lounging in the sun. "Plus, I figured you might have a more refined palate than an actual dog."
I huffed a laugh. "I wouldn't bet on it. I'm more of a beer and pretzels kind of guy."
"Don't sell yourself short," Elara said with a grin. "Look at that tree house. You're an artist!"
The compliment threw me. "That's generous of you, but it's pretty basic."
"Are you kidding? I'd have killed for one of those as a kid. But Dad never had the time between running the bar, taking care of Mom, and me. His plate was overflowing.”
“He worked hard,” I acknowledged.
“Like you.”
"Don't have much of a choice,” I said with a shrug.
Her eyes narrowed. "Do any of us, really?"
"What do you mean?"
She leaned forward. "Do you believe in free will?"
It felt as though the whole world was fading away, and all that existed was me, her, and these pastries. "Course. Don't you?"
"I'm not sure,” she said, sighing. “Maybe it's an illusion. Maybe it wasn't my decision to ask you to taste my baking. Maybe it wasn't your choice to say yes."
My heart pounded. Maybe it hadn't been my choice. Maybe I was powerless to resist.
“Guess I’d better just eat a damn pastry then,” I said gruffly.
She nodded. "Guess you better.”
"What . . . are they?"
