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“Oh, no, you didn’t wake me. I’m Whitney, by the way.”
The young man nods.
“Andrew. Nice to meet you. Again, I’m so sorry to disturb.”
I laugh, trying to put him at ease.
“No, don’t worry about it. I’m always up at this time because I own a bakery and I’m usually at work by now. Sadly, I’ve had to temporarily close SugarTime, but my internal clock did not get the memo.”
The desk clerk cocks his head smiles with recognition, his freckled face breaking into a grin.
“I know SugarTime! My grandmother loves your sugar cookies. My mom would always stop and get her three every Wednesday when she went to visit.”
I stare at him, my synapses firing.
“Wait, your mom must be Bonnie!”
I marvel because New York is a huge city, and yet it remains a small world. Bonnie is a middle-aged customer I’ve become friendly with in the past year or so. I know that she goes to see her mother every Wednesday and brings her my cookies as a treat. Andrew bobs his head with excitement.
“Yes, Ma’am, Bonnie is my mom. You can rest assured that she’ll be back as soon as you can reopen your doors. It was nice to meet you, but I better get back to my post. I have another two hours before my shift ends.”
I smile happily. Human connection, no matter how small, always warms my heart.
“Thank you for bringing up the lemons, Andrew.”
Andrew nods his head in a silent “you’re welcome” and after he leaves, inspiration strikes. Running to the kitchen, I scour Peter’s pantry and find everything I need for lemon blueberry muffins and sugar cookies. I’m going to make a batch of my signature cookies for Andrew to take to his grandmother.
Why not? After all, it feels good to be baking for other people again. I’ve only been doing my vlogs lately, and baking on camera is just not the same because some of the human element is lost. It’s much nicer to make something that someone’s actually going to eat.
Humming, I smile as my hands get busy. Working in Peter’s kitchen is wonderful compared to my tiny apartment kitchen. The double ovens allow me to put bake both treats at the same time. With timers set, I take a cup of coffee out onto the terrace to watch the sun rise over the river.
While on the terrace, I realize that brief tour yesterday didn’t cover the outside, and it turns out Peter has his own dunk pool off one side of the penthouse. It looks like the kind that has the option of turning on a current so you can do laps; kind of like the swimming version of a treadmill. That explains his muscular, gorgeous swimmer’s physique. I walk closer, marveling at the clear water and the fact that I’m literally fifty stories off the ground, and yet looking at a swimming pool.
“Want to skinny dip?” a low voice sounds in my ear.
His voice nearly startles me into falling into the water. Peter is handsomely rumpled from sleep, coffee cup in hand.
“You weren’t kidding about being an early riser. Cookies and muffins in the oven already?” he grins.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you? I tried to be as quiet as I could.”
Peter chuckles.
“No, the noise didn’t wake me. It was the wonderful aroma wafting up the stairs that stirred me at sunrise. I think I’ve been taking this view for granted, and you’re right, this is a fabulous place to drink a cup of coffee. How long until those muffins are ready? I seem to have worked up an appetite from last night.”
I feel the flush of heat creep up my neck as I blush, remembering all that transpired the night before. I am saved by the proverbial bell as the timer on my watch goes off.
“It seems your timing is perfect,” I say sweetly. “That would be the muffins now.”
Peter catches my hand and pulls me into a sweet kiss as I pass him on my way back inside. I’m momentarily caught up in flashbacks to the previous evening’s escapades until the cookie timer goes off too. Reluctantly, I break free of the embrace to rescue my baked goods before they burn. The panther stalks right behind me and helps him to a steaming muffin.
“You’re right,” he remarks. “The lemon adds a layer of flavor to the blueberries in this muffin that I didn’t know I was missing,” Peter comments after taking an enormous bite.
“Oh you!” I laugh. “You didn’t even give it time to cool!”
He merely wolfs down the entire pastry before patting me on the butt. I love it, but my insecurities kick in again as I move the cookies to the cooling rack, surreptitiously sneaking glances at the gorgeous, rich man eating my handiwork. What does he see in me? Should I enjoy the ride while it lasts? Will I fall for this guy and get my heart broken? Unfortunately, I think the answer to the last question is likely “yes,” much to my dismay.
