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“I’m glad we’re working together because this is going to take hours to explain,” Scott says as he pushes his glasses up.
“Yeah, it’s going to be great,” I say in a flat voice. Julian chuckles.
“I’ll go through each movie one at a time,” Scott says, completely oblivious to my lack of interest. “People always want to ask about Wall-E, but we’ll get there eventually. Wall-E is set after the apocalypse on Earth. It’s all going to make sense soon.”
“Isn’t that the oven ringing?” I ask, trying to get rid of him.
His face scrunches up. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I think Trish wanted the garbage taken out,” I say, desperate to be alone with this hunky mountain man again.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not full enough. Trish gets mad if we waste garbage bags.”
I drop my head with a grunt of frustration when he continues.
“But how do you explain the superhuman people in The Incredibles?” he says, more to himself than to me. “Well, I’m glad you asked.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Superhumans arrive on the Pixar timeline around—“
“Excuse me,” Julian interrupts in his deep voice.
Scott’s mouth is open as he turns to him. I’m not sure if he even noticed that Julian was in the store. “Yeah?”
“If I buy a cake, can you write something on it?”
Scott looks the massive man up and down. “Yeah.”
Julian goes through his phone and hands it over. “Here. Write this on a cake.”
Scott slides off the counter and takes the phone. “What’s this?”
“It’s Harry Potter. Start writing from line one.”
“I won’t get the whole book on a cake.”
I snort out a laugh.
Scott is serious.
“Get as much as you can,” Julian says, trying not to laugh.
“Okay,” Scott says as he pushes his glasses up his nose, “but it’s going to take a long time.”
Julian grins. “Perfect.”
Scott disappears into the back with a large cake and we’re suddenly alone again. My pulse starts racing as the air charges with excitement and possibility.
Julian’s sexy blue eyes are locked on me as he comes over and leans on the counter seductively. He smells so good. Like cologne and the mountains. I just want to cuddle up to him and breathe in his masculine scent until I’m dizzy.
“Big Harry Potter fan?” I ask with a grin.
He smiles and it makes me blush. “Hogwarts for life, baby.”
“I bet you’d be a Gryffindor,” I say. Gryffindors are brave, chivalrous, and they help people. What better characteristics would describe a man like Julian who works in Search and Rescue?
“You’re probably right,” he says. “Which house would you be?”
I give him a flirty grin. “Hopefully, whichever one you’d be in.”
He smiles and my chest starts to flutter.
“But I’d probably be a Hufflepuff. They value hard work, patience, loyalty, and fair play. I think that fits me pretty well.”
“I’ll try my best to play fair,” he says with a tilt of his head.
He’s already not playing fair with that killer smile.
“Did you save any lost kids today?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I just sat around thinking about you.”
Oh, man. Now I’m blushing. This guy is too much.
“How’s your first day of work going?”
I sigh as reality comes crashing back down. “I made blueberry Danishes. Twenty of them.”
“How’d they turn out?”
“The Danes would throw me in prison if they saw them.”
He chuckles. “Are there any left? I want to try one.”
“Trust me, you don’t,” I say with a laugh. “They’re horrible. They’re defective. I don’t know what went wrong.”
He leans down and looks at them on the bottom of the glass display case. “Are these the ones?”
I cover my face with my hands, too embarrassed to look at him.
“I’d like to buy one please.”
“No, you don’t,” I blurt out. “No one wants to buy those.”
“I don’t care what anyone else wants. I want one.”
“Alright,” I say as I slip off the stool. “It’s your funeral.”
I look them over with a wince. They’re either undercooked or burnt to a crisp. Not one of them is cooked properly.
I take the least mangled one with the tongs and hand it over. He takes it with his big strong fingers and while looking me in the eyes, he bites into it with his sexy mouth.
“Delicious,” he says as he chews.
My cheeks go hotter than the ovens behind me when I hear crackling and his face twists up for a second. He’s eating an eggshell. I can hear it.
He hides it well, pretending it’s a fluffy Danish and not a thick dense brick of pastry with eggshells scattered throughout. He gets serious bonus points for keeping a straight face.
“Spit it out,” I beg. “You don’t have to eat it.”
“It’s delicious,” he says before taking another bite. I wince when I hear more eggshells breaking between his teeth.
This is so humiliating.
“Where are you from, Abby?” he asks when he’s done. I think we’re both relieved that it’s over.
