I bite down on the smile threatening to break loose and turn back toward the counter, but not fully.
“They look pretty stable to me,” I offer.
His eyes dart to mine, and he opens his mouth to reply, but then a sudden wave of realization passes over his face, and he abruptly turns to the rest of the men. “Who else was thinking about getting one?”
“I wasn’t,” says the dark blonde guy behind him.
“Youwere! I saw you eyeing them up—that’s proximity intent.”
“Fletch, that’s not a thing.”
“It is today, Prince.”
My brows lift slightly as I watch the four of them bicker like a group of brothers, and Rose mutters something under her breath.
I turn to her quietly. “Are they always like this?”
She nods. “Every single day.”
“Well,” I say, turning back to them and lifting my hand to interrupt. “I don’t think I could, in good conscience, deprive a man in uniform of baked goods.”
The one called Mason straightens, suddenly aware of his dramatics. “This isn’t charity.”
I bite my lip. “It feels like it might be.”
“It’s about sugar and calories. I need them to function in highly stressful situat—”
“Take it.”
The calm, level voice comes from just behind Mason, and I tilt my head to see around him. It's the one with dark blonde tousled hair, and his expression is set in a way that suggests he is deeply unimpressed to be participating in pastry negotiations.
His fire department T-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders and tucked into his dark blue duty pants, but it’s his arms that draw my attention as he folds them across his chest.
He nods toward the two cinnamon buns left in the cabinet.
“Take what you want,” he adds again. “He’ll survive.”
Mason gestures wildly. “You can’t just override the process!”
“There is no process,” he replies.
There’s something about him, the way he seems so unbothered and unshakeable, that makes me want to test how far I can push him. Which is a ridiculous notion, because I don’t even know this guy.
My mouth tugs before I can stop it, and I lift my shoulder. “Bold of you to assume I wasn’t going to take it.”
Hazel eyes lift to mine. It’s direct but brief, and I can almost feel the pull of them dragging over my face, assessing without being intrusive.
“Then don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t,” I say, turning back toward Rose with a playful sniff and placing my cash on the counter. “And I’ll grab a latte as well, please Rose… to accompany the cinnamon bun.”
Behind me, Mason exhales loudly, and someone tells him to get a grip. I stifle my laugh, and Rose rolls her eyes, turning to a young employee.
“Rory, love—latte, please.”
An ash-blonde teenage girl behind the machine nods and gets to work, and I shift into a barstool at the counter, watching her make it.
Rose’s gaze sweeps back over to the firemen in a way that feels more like a headcount than anything else. Satisfied, she reaches for a cup without asking.
