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“I want to keep eating cake,” Ivy says. It’s nearly still a moan. She’s got to stop that, or I’m going to clear the cake off the table, instruct my sister and Nan to exit the premises, and?—
“I don’t recommend berry for weddings,” Nan says.
“Why do you give them the berry and then tell them you don’t recommend it?” Hanna asks, exasperated.
I half expect Nan to snap back at her, but clearly they’ve been over this before and Hanna’s question is more rhetorical than actual because Nan shrugs and says, “So when they taste the chocolate, they know they have the very best.”
Hanna rolls her eyes.
Nan goes back to the kitchen and comes back with another plate. “Carrot cake,” she says.
“Which, spoiler alert, she also does not recommend for weddings,” Hanna grouses.
Ivy’s reaction this time is a little more muted, but I still very much enjoy watching her tongue dart out to catch the last little bits of cream-cheese frosting and the way her eyes close as she chews.
“Wow,” she says.
Also tastes like dust. I guess men aren’t meant to hunt wildebeest and fuck their cavewives at the same time.
Next up is the yellow-and-chocolate swirl. By that point, some of my sense of taste has come back, and Jesus, that is good cake. Tender, moist, flavorful. Until I look up at Ivy’s expression of complete, melting pleasure.
Oh God.
Just bring the chocolate already, I mentally plead with Nan.
And to her credit, she does.
“This one is my Better Than Robert Redford cake,” she says.
“It’s her Better Than Sex cake,” Hanna says impatiently. “And it’s the cake she was always going to sell you.”
“Hush, Hanna Hott,” Nan says. “I was baking when you were still in diapers. Let me do this my way.”
“Ohhh,” Ivy says. “Ohhhh.”
My hands are in fists under the table. I have to force myself to grasp the fork and stick a bite into my mouth?—
Nope. Might as well be dirt for all the flavor it has right now. I push the plate away just as Ivy says, “You might be right. That might actually be better than?—”
“Nope.”
They all turn to look at me.
“Give us a second?” I say, shooting a look at Hanna and then Nan, then hustling Ivy out of the bakery and onto the sidewalk, where I back her up against the narrow strip of brick between Rush Creek Bakery and the Smokehouse.
I lower my forehead to hers and murmur, “You’ve obviously been having sex with all the wrong men. You give me one hour, and I’ll prove it to you.”
Under mine, Ivy’s body is soft and pliable, her chest heaving with her rapid breaths, her eyes startled, her mouth open. I can’t help myself—I lower my head and kiss her, hot and urgent, until she’s panting.
“Get a room!” someone calls from across the street, but they’re laughing.
I pull back, recovering good sense.
Ivy’s lips curve up at the corners. “I was going to say the cake might be better than Robert Redford. Why? What did you think I was going to say?” She gives me an unbelievably naughty look and takes a step forward so her hip presses against the bulge in my jeans. My cock surges toward the welcome pressure, and for a second, I have to cling to self-control.
I get myself under wraps.
“You were messing with me on purpose.”
