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Bastard, he took the big one.
If I thought the sandwiches were good, then the doughnut is orgasmic. It’s oozing lemony vanilla custard filling, and it’s the perfect amount of sweet and creamy. I’m pretty sure I manage to hold my moan of pleasure in, and I don’t dare to look at Dean. We’re in serious food-that’s-better-than-sex territory here.
“You should definitely bring a date here. Just feed her a steady diet of these, and I guarantee you’ll be irresistible.”
”Is that so?” he says slyly, and this time I’m sure I don’t manage to keep the blush at bay. I push back my seat and stand to avoid any further eye contact, and together, we make our way to the front of the bakery to pay.
Ahead of us at the wide oak counter is a short elderly woman with a neat gray bun and a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. She’s squinting at the label on a jar of preserves for sale next to the register.
“Oh dear,” she says, turning and holding the jar out to Dean. “This writing is too small for my eyes, glasses or not. Can you help me out, young man?” She bats her eyelashes up at him as he takes the jar from her and reads out the ingredient list. While he’s busy doing that, she surreptitiously runs her eyes over him. I struggle to keep a straight face. I can hardly blame her. He is a nice specimen of a man.
Once Dean’s finished reading, she places a hand on his arm and looks up at his face again, giving him a soft smile. Wow, nanna is into him, demure cardigan, knee-length skirt, and all.
“Where’s it made?” she asks and shoots me a cheeky smirk as she shamelessly runs her hand up and down his forearm as if to sayI’ve got my hands on your man, and you can’t stop me.
It seems Dean’s appeal knows no age limit.
She hands him another jar, and he patiently reads the label on that one to her as well, and I leave them to it. This may well be the highlight of this woman’s week, and who am I to deprive a sister, as devious as she may be, of a cheap thrill?
Dean has done well with today’s lunch. This is a fantastic place—it’s not pretentious, the food is excellent, and there’s plenty to taste and talk about. When left to his own devices, he’s done quite well, really. Maybe that was the problem with his last date—the venue was off. I can help him with that, but if today’s lunch is any indication, he can take care of himself.
A few minutes later, our octogenarian friend has finished petting Dean, and we settle the bill. Out on the street again, I start to think ahead.
“Thanks for a great lunch. You really must remember this spot for the future. It’s a winner.” He blasts me with a wide smile, pleased with the compliment. Even his teeth are sexy. “I’ll email you the details for your next date on Wednesday night.” I have a great girl in mind, and now that we’ve gone through a few details about his last date, I’m sure I can better help set him up for success.
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he says, his smile dropping. Oh God, is he back to this again? Resistance makes my job so much harder.
“I promise we’ll get there, Dean. Please have faith in me.” I don’t want to lose my job.
“No, I know. I’ll keep my eyes on my inbox.” His tone has changed. He’s all clipped and business-like. And with that, he turns, and I’m left to stare after his taut butt and long legs striding down the street.
