I glance at the clock. “Yeah. I need to pick up Maisie from Jude’s.”
“I can walk you to your car,” he offers. “And maybe… if you’re not busy tomorrow? I have a new recipe for a chocolate tart with sea salt. I need a critic.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Is that your way of asking me on a date, Elijah?”
“It’s my way of asking for a professional opinion,” he teases, though his eyes are serious. “But if it happens to be a date, I wouldn’t be opposed.”
I look down at the box of lemon tarts in my hands. I think about Luke, about the fear, about the walls I’ve built. And then I think about Eli wiping mud off my cheek.
“I’d like that,” I say softly. “I think Maisie would love to be a critic, too.”
Eli’s grin widens. “Then it’s a date. I’ll text you the details.”
“You’ll text me?”
“Text me when you get home so that I have your number.” He taps the side of his head. “I’m not letting you get away that easy again.”
I walk him to the door, unlocking it. The cold air rushes in, but I don’t feel it as much this time.
“Goodnight, Amber,” he says, hesitating at the threshold. “What’s your last name, sweetheart?”
“Carter.”
“Gorgeous.”
“What’s yours?”
He smiles. “Chen.”
I smile back. “Goodnight, Eli.”
“Goodnight, Amber.”
He walks out to his SUV, turning back to wave once before he gets in. I watch him drive away, the box of tarts clutched against my chest like a shield.
Back inside the quiet shop, I set the box down on the counter. I take out one of the tarts and take a bite.
The crust shatters perfectly, buttery and rich. The lemon curd is bright and tangy, balanced by the sweet cream. It’s perfect. It’s sunshine on a cloudy day.
I pull out my phone. I stare at the text thread for a second, then type two words.
Thank you.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Anytime. See you tomorrow.
I smile, a real, genuine smile that reaches my eyes. I pack up the rest of the tarts, grab my coat, and lock up the shop.
The night feels different now. Lighter.
I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow.
CHAPTER NINE
Knox
The veal stockis at a perfect simmer—not a rolling boil that would cloud the liquid, but a gentle, rhythmic bubbling that coaxes every bit of collagen and flavor from the bones.
