“I—yes.” Amanda blinks, clearly caught off guard.
“Heard you’d be in town. The mayor wrote an article about it inThe Almanac.” She tips her head, giving me a better view of the beauty mark under her right eye. “Something about you lighting the Christmas tree tomorrow night in front of Town Hall?”
I’ve seen plenty of attractive women in LA. Dated more than a few. Celebrities, models, women with carefully tousled hair and strategically placed beauty marks.
So it makesno damn sensethat my throat goes dry and my leather gloves creak from how tightly I’m clenching my fists from my sudden, irrational urge to act like that stray and beg this woman for a treat.
Amanda beams. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Welcome to Hideaway Harbor.” She holds out the bakery box. “Two of each of my holiday whoopie pies.”
I watch like a man observing a particularly tense chessmatch. Amanda’s eyes flick to me occasionally, but the baker? She makes it clear I’ve been cut from the scene.
As someone who’s spent his career carefully curated and painfully aware of how every move plays in the court of public opinion, I’mnotused to being ignored. Or called out.
Especially not by a wild-haired pastry assassin who smells like peppermint and poor impulse control.
Which explains the strange heat crawling up my neck when my gaze drops—unhelpfully—to the open collar of her chef’s coat.
Right to the delicate slope of her collarbone.
“Wow.” Amanda, lips forming an O at the box’s contents, accepts it reverently. “Thank you.”
I snap out of it, reaching for my wallet. “Let me pay you for?—”
“No need.” She lifts a hand, eyes still on Amanda. “I just thought it’d be wise to come out and meet you before you got swarmed.” She thumbs toward the bakery window, where at least six faces are now smooshed against the glass.
“Your customers?” I blame the tone on jet lag. And possibly starvation. But it gets me what I want—her attention.
Andoof. That look.
“Yes.” Her brow arches like she’s trying to illustrate how beneath her she finds me.
My frozen testicles begin to thaw.
“I’m Audrey Nouel, the owner and patissière of Making Whoopie”—she gestures to the holly-wrapped sign beside the door—“and a big fan of aggressively festive holiday décor.” She turns back to Amanda. “Also a big fan of yours.Lovedyou inLift Off to Love.”
Of course her name is Audrey. She’s Audrey Hepburn incarnate.
And I’ve always had a thing for classics.
“Thanks.” Amanda sounds sincere, but I can tell her focus has shifted entirely to the treasure trove in her hands. “Whoa.”
The smile that lights up Audrey’s face in response makes my chest feel like I’ve taken a sip of really good whiskey after closing a seven-figure deal.
She bats her lashes—fake-innocent. “My next suggestion for your visit would be to find someone who actually appreciates the town’s charm.”
I flinch, the barb landing.
“But if that fails...” She shrugs, chin tilting toward the shop next door. “Grabbing a coffee from Love at First Sip is the next best thing.” And with that, she steps back inside.
Not a glance in my direction. Just the door shutting firmly behind her.
My next shiver starts below the belt.
“Ooh.” Amanda, completely unfazed, lifts a glittering whoopie pie from the pale blue box. “This one has glitter.”
Audrey
