The dress was a mistake.
It’s too much. Too fitted. Too… deliberate.
I should’ve just worn jeans and a sweater, something casual, something that didn’t make it look like I actually thought about this.
Like I cared.
God, what was I thinking?
I shake my head, already turning on my heel. I can change. If I hurry, I can swap the dress for leggings and a hoodie, something that screams ‘I did not put any effort into this, thank you very much.’
I start toward the stairs but then a sharp knock echoes through the cafe.
I freeze.
No.
No, no, no, he’s early.
For half a second, I consider ignoring it. If I’m quiet enough, maybe he’ll think I’m not ready and give me a few extra minutesto fix this mistake.
Then another knock. Slower this time. More deliberate.
“Come on, Lila. I know you’re in there.”
Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply before turning back to the door.
I am not going to let him see that this threw me.
I am not going to let him see that I almost ran upstairs like a flustered idiot over a damn dress.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
There he is.
Ben Ashcroft, standing in the glow of the street light, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his dark blond hair still slightly damp from his earlier shower. His stubble is sharper than usual, jawline crisp beneath the soft glow. His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, and something about the way he lingers at my hemline makes my skin heat immediately.
His lips curve. “Nice dress.”
I am going to kill him.
***
Ben grips the piping bag, forearms flexing as he applies steady, controlled pressure. The dough flows out in perfect, even lines, smooth and precise.
I’ve got a front-row seat to a real-life thirst trap, like one of those unholy TikToks where a man smacks dough like it’s foreplay, grips it like he’s got sinful intentions, sniffs it for no damn reason except to make your knees weak, all while looking like six feet of heat, hunger, and pure filth.
Yet, here we are.
Ben completely focused on piping choux pastry is some kindof sensory experience.
I force my gaze away. Anywhere but there.
“You’re not going to critique my form?” he muses, not looking up.
His form?
