“Try it. While it’s still warm.”
I pick up a bun. It’s heavy, dense, and warm in my hand. I take a bite.
The flavor explodes in my mouth. The dough is soft and rich, melting on my tongue. The brown butter gives it a nutty, deep depth, and the cinnamon is spicy. Then the glaze hits—cool, tangy, and sweet, with that perfect dash of salt that cuts through the sugar. It’s, without a doubt, the best thing I have ever eaten.
I let out a low, involuntary moan.
Eli watches me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That gives me hope.”
I swallow, licking a bit of glaze from my thumb. “Eli. You were not lying. These are fucking fantastic.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Lemon tarts have been my favorite dessert since I was a kid. But I might need to switch. This is… this is comfort on a plate.”
He laughs, looking relieved. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d hate to lose the title to a lemon tart.”
“What’s your favorite?” I ask him.
He considers it for a moment. “Pavlova. I love the contrast. Crunchy meringue on the outside, soft marshmallow on the inside, with tart fruit and whipped cream. It’s a texture thing.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He leans his elbows on the counter, getting a little closer. “What about your daughter? What’s her favorite?”
Something in my chest unfurls, a tight knot I didn’t even know was there loosening. Most men, when they find out I have a child, they check out. Their eyes glaze over. But Eli… he seems genuinely interested. He wants to know about Maisie.
“Lemon tarts, actually,” I tell him, smiling. “She loves them. We get them from Lorelai’s whenever we have a good week.”
Eli grins. “She has great taste. Just like her mother.”
I look down at my bun, feeling the heat climb up my neck again. “You have a very smooth tongue.”
He doesn’t deny it. His smirk is playful, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “I’m just stating facts. You have a very pretty smile, Amber. You should wear it more often.”
I set the bun down, my heart thumping against my ribs. The air between us feels charged, electric. “Are you hitting on me, Eli?”
He doesn’t look away. He holds my gaze, his expression open and honest. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On if that is something you would want.”
I pick up my tea, taking a sip to buy myself a second. The liquid is hot and floral, calming my racing nerves but doing nothing to dampen the attraction. I set the cup down.
“It’s a little complicated,” I whisper.
He nods, accepting that without pushing. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask who. He just lets it be.
“Can I ask,” he says softly, “if you’re seeing someone?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
“Good,” he says simply.
The single word hangs in the air between us. I take another bite of the bun, needing something to do with my hands. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
He reaches out and breaks off a piece of my bun, popping it into his mouth. “No. I’m not seeing anyone either.”
