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Those big eyes got even bigger. “Ooh, cut you to the quick, did I?” she murmured. “Made fresh by who?”
His chest puffed out. “By me.”
Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “No way.”
He bristled. “Way! Why would I lie?”
She propped her chin on her hand, and gazed up. “To impress me?” she suggested. “To distinguish yourself from the anonymous, sweating, teeming masses?”
Bruno considered that. “I didn’t know I was competing with any anonymous teeming masses, sweaty or otherwise,” he said. “And I’ve never had to work that hard to impress girls.”
“Hmm.” The eyelashes swept down as she pondered her next jab. “So you prefer to hang out with girls who are easy to please?”
Her attitude was starting to piss him off. “And why would it be a bad thing to be easily pleased?”
The eyes opened, wide and innocent. “Did I say it was bad?”
He closed his mouth. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m lost in the maze of this conversation, and I can’t find my way out, so I’m bailing. But if I actually were going to try to impress a girl, the first clever ploy that would come to my mind would not be lies about pastry making.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, that really begs the question. What clever ploy would be the first one to come to your mind? I’d love to hear it.”
He thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t step into holes in the ground that big,” he said. “Certainly not at four in the morning, after a long shift. I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Her X-Ray gaze bored into his head, so intently he practically started to blush. “I just can’t see a guy like you making grandma food like rice pudding or banana cream pie. Brownie sundaes, maybe, but…no. Not unless you’re gay, of course. Are you gay?”
He let out a slow breath, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I’m an excellent pastry chef. My pie crust is better than my Zia Rosa’s. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ll make a chocolate cream pie before your very eyes. I’ll feed a piece of it to you by hand. And by the time I’m done, you’re not going to be asking me if I’m gay anymore.”
She cleared her throat, gaze darting down. “Is that so.”
“It is,” he said. “On your feet. Come on back to the kitchen. I mean it. I’m dead serious. It’s pie time. And I am so ready for you.”
She chewed on one side of her soft red lower lip, peeking up at him. Her fabulous if somewhat gummy black eyelashes were at mysterious half-mast. “Um, no thanks. I’m sure you’re very good at it.”
Her provocative tone was gone. Her voice was quiet.
Bruno folded his arms over his chest, flipping the order pad nervously against his arm. She backed down, but too soon. He hadn’t worked his mad out yet. “What the hell did you mean by that, anyway?”
She blinked, innocently. “Mean by what?”
“A guy like me,” he repeated. “What kind of guy is that? What do you know think you know about me? You have no clue who I am.”
It was like she’d taken off a mask. She looked completely different. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. I made assumptions based on your looks, which is really shallow, and I hate it when guys do that to me. I don’t know anything about you. Except for what you tell me.”
Wow. He ran a flash analysis to decide what conversational road to travel next. Time to shift gears. A peace offering, maybe. “What do you want to know?” he asked, rashly. “I’ll tell you anything.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Her chin went back up. Her gaze raked over his body, assessing him. “For starters, tell me how you can make banana cream pie and chocolate brownies in industrial quantities and still look like that. And don’t tell me about the thirty hours a week in the gym, because I don’t want to hear it.”
So it was back to brittle flirting. Whatever. “OK, I won’t tell you that,” he said easily. “I’ve just got one of those metabolisms. I can eat anything, any time, as much as I want, with extra whipped cream on it. I know girls hate that, but we all have our gifts.”
He headed for the dessert counter, where he proceeded to dish up a big bowl of rice pudding, dusting it with cinnamon. Then a huge, quivering slice of banana cream pie. He poured them both some coffee, buzzed and jittery though he already was. He needed something to do with his hands, if she was actually ready to acknowledge his existence.
Or he’d find himself panting. Wagging. Or worse, babbling.
He laid the desserts on the table. Her crooked smile faltered a little when he boldly slid into the seat facing her, the better to hide his hard-on. None of the other customers needed attention. Just as well. He would have ignored them if they had.
The silence stretched out taut as she sipped her coffee. Strong, fresh French roast, with a shot of real cream, no sugar. She liked it just the way he liked it.
Strange, to be sitting here quietly with a woman who turned him on so much, and not be trying to show her how interesting or fascinating or unique or solvent he was. That’s what he would’ve done in the old days. He’d cooled down on that, after his recent notoriety following his adopted brother Kev’s mortal duel with the evil zombie masters, the gun battles, the bombs. Tony’s death. All that shit.
