Let alone by baked goods.
“You have frosting on your cheek,” he said.
“I always have frosting on my cheek.”
“This seems like more than usual.”
She glanced up, and their eyes met across the cake. Her pulse quickened; he could see it in the hollow of her throat, feel the same acceleration echoing in his own chest.
“Where?” she asked.
He should have just pointed. Should have indicated the location and let her handle it herself. That would have been the sensible response.
Instead, he reached out.
His thumb brushed the curve of her cheekbone, wiping away the smear of white frosting. The bond amplified every sensation until her gasp registered as his own.
She didn’t move.
Neither did he.
They stood there, his hand still cupping her face, the cake forgotten between them. Her lips had parted. Her want mirrored his own, reflecting and amplifying until he couldn’t tell whose desire was whose.
“Marina,” he breathed.
She didn’t move away.
He leaned closer. Felt her lean in too. His thumb traced her cheekbone again, this time not for frosting; just because he wanted to touch her. Because he’d wanted to touch her for days and hadn’t let himself.
Their breath mingled. Inches between them. Less.
The bakery door chimed.
They jerked apart so fast that the cake stand wobbled dangerously. Alessandro steadied it through pure reflexes while Marina spun toward the counter, face flushed, hands trembling.
“Good afternoon!” Mrs. Thornberry called from the doorway. “I’m here about the special order?”
“Yes!” Marina’s voice was too high. “The special order. Right. One moment.”
She fled toward the counter, leaving Alessandro standing by the cake with his pulse hammering and his hand still warm from her skin.
Her embarrassment reached him first, then her frustration. And underneath it all, a desperate, aching want that matched his own.
The rest of the afternoon passed in excruciating awareness. Every time they moved around each other in the kitchen, the space between them felt charged. Every accidental brush of shoulders sent sparks cascading between them.
They didn’t talk about what had almost happened.
They didn’t have to. They could both feel it.
The bond carried everything: every spike of awareness when their hands reached for the same utensil, every quickened pulse when they passed too close in the narrow kitchen, every moment of eye contact that lasted a beat too long before one of them looked away.
By the time the afternoon rush ended, Alessandro couldn’t think straight. Every sensation felt amplified. The air itself carried her scent: vanilla and salt and something uniquely Marina that he’d never be able to forget.
He wanted her. The wanting was no longer theoretical or abstract. It was immediate, impossible to ignore. And he knew she felt the same.
But neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They just… existed in the tension, letting it build, not ready to release it but unable to make it stop.
At closing time, Marina retreated upstairs with a murmured “goodnight” that came out too breathless. Alessandro stayed behind to take out the trash, a task he’d never volunteered for before, but suddenly necessary.
