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“You want a little of the Nutella crepe to hold you over?” Slash asked, already cutting the crepe into pieces.
“No, I’m okay. I don’t really like Nutella.”
He stopped what he was doing to look at me. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“But you’re a baker.”
“Can I admit something to you?” I asked as I bit my lip.
“Yeah, you can admit something to me.”
“I hate sweets.”
“You don’t.”
“No, really, I do.”
“How is that possible?”
“I dunno. My dad thought it was weird, too.” I smiled. “I prefer savory foods.”
“I’ll wait to eat until yours comes out.”
“No. Don’t. Eat now. Before it gets cold.”
“You sure?”
I nodded.
He paused for a moment, and then he dove in. I watched him enjoy his food, finding it oddly adorable that a biker with a scar, who was heavily tattooed and sixteen years older than me, was trying not to lick the last bit of Nutella off his plate.
“Slash?” I asked quietly.
“Hmm?”
“Thanks for not freaking out when I started bawling like a lunatic over ordering the wrong thing.”
He set his fork down and it clanked against the plate. He reached for a paper napkin and wiped his mouth before replying. “What’s there to freak out about?”
* * *
“How are you feeling?” Slash asked as we walked into the parking lot.
“Full,” I said with a laugh. “Really full.”
He looped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his side. It was natural and easy, and I didn’t fight it.
“I have to make a quick stop before I drop you off. That okay?”
“Sure.”
His thumbs thumped against the steering wheel as he drove. I settled down in the comfortable seat and discreetly studied him.
Slash looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “What?”
“Are you a night owl?”
