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I’d prefer to nibble on those sexy lips of his that insist on curving up like the boy next door whenever he sees me.
And I have a third good reason to keep my rambling under control: we need to talk about our date. I would rather Jesse bring up the subject.
I’m getting quite the thrill by sitting here enjoying my coffee and watching this man devour my food. He attacks it, making noises like he’s never tasted anything so good. He’s being too complimentary, and my already pink cheeks must be totally splotchy by now.
We chat about the food, we talk about work. Jesse finishes the egg muffin and starts on the grapes. Why did I pick grapes? Grapes are far too sexy a fruit for first thing in the morning. So is the way he pops them in his mouth, making more appreciative noises as if I’m the grower of all grapes.
Okay. The man loves to eat. Why is that by itself so damn attractive?
I don’t much want to talk about myself, but he asks where I went to school, where I learned to bake, and what made me open a business. Never with his mouth full, though. I appreciate that.
Does he know how self-conscious I feel, talking about myself so much?
I turn it around at some point and ask him about being a cowboy and how old he was when he first got on the back of a horse.
“Speaking of horses. Tell me when you’d like to have our date. I’d love to show you the stables, and have my chef make us something special.”
This rankles me a bit. I can’t quite put my finger on it. My logical brain says absolutely not; it’s too romantic of a setting to be alone with a man twice your age. What will people think? But the rest of me wants to crawl into his lap and feed him the rest of those grapes by hand, call him Daddy and ask him to describe this date in incredible detail.
“I’m supposed to be the one to pick what we do on our date,” I say, smirking and sipping my coffee.
Jesse responds with a teasing smile. “Sure, but I figured you must be busy, and I’ve got access to the perfect location.”
I nod. “Yes, but I’d rather not go to your house on a first date. Just a rule with me.” Lie. It’s not a rule with me. I’m trying to protect my heart from my out-of-control libido.
Jesse studies me, still smiling but determined. “You already did the hard part, spending fifteen hundred dollars. I want to make it worth your while.”
I don’t want to talk about the money. It makes me sound desperate for a date, which I’m not.
“And part of the pleasure of winning a date is getting to make the decisions, thank you.” Now my smile has gone tight, and I don’t mean for it to.
He leans back. “It’s in my nature; I like to be helpful,” Jesse says, showing me his palms in surrender. “We can do whatever you want, Mariam.”
What I want is to take him up on his offer. Ride horses tougher into the sunset and kiss under a full moon. And listen to him say my name softly, just like that, repeatedly.
But what I want to do and what we should do are two very different things.
Jesse’s eyes search me, waiting for me to respond. His denim-blue eyes are so clear and honest my gut tells me even if I do go along with his idea, he won’t try to pressure me into anything. Beyond that, I know for sure this man would show up. This man has never ghosted anyone in his life. I can feel it.
My lips part to make a second suggestion, when Chewbacca’s caterwauling interrupts my train of thought.
Because of my wanton staring at Jesse and his pretty mouth, I don’t notice the woman coming up the sidewalk outside until she passes by our table, pushed up next to the storefront window.
And now she’s in my shop. Joyce, the woman from the real estate signs, dressed like a million bucks in a tight pencil skirt, banging high heels, tight cashmere sweater, and, oh look, a pencil stuck into a messy bun. Is she auditioning for the role of sexy librarian? She gives me a brief, withering stare, then looks past me and does a slow blink at Jesse, then peels off her cat-eye glasses. “Oh, Mister Jones. I didn’t see you there. I just came in to grab my morning espresso before work.”
She says this as if she’s a regular customer. Which she isn’t. If she were, she’d know I don’t even have an espresso machine.
Joyce turns and sashays up to the counter. “Hmm,” she says, jutting her hip and tapping her chin. “I wonder if anyone works here.”
Several things occur to me. She’s a woman of Jesse’s age. Also, even though she’s obvious about it, she’s deadly hot.
And here I am, in my pink baseball cap with my hair tucked, no makeup, a flour-covered apron, and the ugliest, chunkiest crew shoes to keep my Achilles tendonitis from ruining my life.
I really wish my girlfriends were here to defuse the tension. I met Serena, Maisy, and Charity when they all started a Saturday morning tradition of hauling their brood into the bakery for hot cocoa and sweets. I gave them all free cake pops on their first visit, and we’ve been friends ever since. However, I’m sure all three women are nursing fierce hangovers today.
If Maisy were here, she’d have something snappy to say to Joyce.
But it’s only me, and I can’t afford to lose a customer today. Not when I haven’t made a single sale.
