“Hey, sweetheart,” he replies. His voice is low and warm, washing over me like a thermal blanket.
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. He raises a hand, his thumb brushing against my cheek. I flinch slightly, but I don’t pull away.
“You’ve got a little… mud,” he murmurs, his thumb swiping gently just below my eye.
His touch is electric. A spark jumps from his skin to mine, igniting a fire that spreads through my veins like liquid heat.
My knees feel weak, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. He’s so close. I can smell him—vanilla, burnt sugar, and that distinct Alpha scent that makes my head spin.
“How are you?” he asks, dropping his hand but not stepping away. His eyes roam over my face, taking me in.
“Good,” I manage to squeak out. “Busy. You?”
“Same.” He shifts his weight, glancing around the shop before his eyes lock back onto mine. “You never texted me.”
The words hang in the air between us. They aren’t an accusation, just a statement of fact. But I feel the guilt rise in my throat anyway.
“Sorry,” I whisper, looking down at my boots. “I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be,” he says immediately. He reaches out, tilting my chin up until I have to look at him. “I get it. It was an… intense night. Sometimes you need to process that alone.”
His understanding is almost worse than judgment. It makes my chest tight.
“I still thought about you, though,” he adds, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. “A lot.” He lifts the box he’s holding and sets it down on the counter between us. “I made these. I just… I thought of you. And I wanted you to have them.”
I look at the box, then up at him. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
I untie the twine, my fingers fumbling slightly. I lift the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of parchment paper, are half a dozen perfect, golden-yellow tarts. The shells are a deep, buttery brown, the filling is a smooth, glistening lemon curd, and each one is topped with a dollop of pristine white whipped cream and a curl of lemon zest.
My breath catches in my throat. Lemon tarts.
“Lemon tarts,” I say, my voice trembling. “You remembered.”
“I remember you saying they were your favorite,” he says, leaning against the counter. “And I remember you saying your daughter likes them too. Maisie, right?”
I nod, unable to speak. He remembered. He remembered a casual comment I made in the middle of a kitchen while I was half-naked and overwhelmed. He remembered, and he acted on it.
“These look… Eli, these look professional. They look amazing.”
“They taste better than they look,” he says confidently. “The curd is made with Meyer lemons. They’re sweeter than regular lemons, less acidic. I think you’ll like them.”
I pick up the box, the scent of fresh lemon wafting up to greet me. It’s bright and cheerful, cutting right through the gloom I’ve been carrying around all week.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Really. This is… this is incredibly thoughtful.”
“I wanted to see you,” he admits, his voice dropping an octave. “The tarts were just an excuse. I wanted to make sure you were okay. After the other night, I didn’t want you to… regret it.”
I look at him—this kind, gorgeous, thoughtful man who brought me lemon tarts just because he thought of me. The fear that has been choking me for three days loosens its grip.
“I don’t regret it,” I tell him firmly. “I was scared. I’m still scared. But I don’t regret it.”
Eli lets out a breath he seems to have been holding. “Good. That’s… really good to hear.”
He looks around the shop again, which is now dimly lit as the sun sets behind the buildings. “Do you have to close up soon?”
