by Ember Casey
“I’ve got another round of press commitments over the next few days,” he says, “but I have an opening on Monday afternoon.”
“We’re closed on Mondays. You know that.”
“Then I’m happy to host the tasting at my place, if you’d prefer.”
I’m not falling for that, and I’m a little insulted he expects me to. But Monday is out of the question—I can’t call in Mama Pat to cover the appointment on one of her days off. She’ll already be working overtime this weekend to help me with our recent influx of orders.
“The tasting has to be here,” I tell him. “Is there any other time that might work for you?”
“I could do late Thursday evening.”
That poses the same problems. “Why don’t you have one of your assistants cover it?”
“This is an important cake. I don’t trust it to anyone else.” A pause. “If I didn’t know any better, Ash, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you!” Damn him—he knows just how to push my buttons. “Fine. Monday afternoon. Four o’clock. If you’re late, I’m canceling your order.”
“You don’t have to concern yourself with that, Ash. I’ll be there.”
I’ve no doubt you will. Hanging up the phone, a wave of dizziness passes through me, and I lean against the wall for support. Dante isn’t going to give up this hunt anytime soon.
But that’s not what scares me. What scares me is that the longer this goes on, the less I think I want him to.
* * *
I’m testing a spicy variation of my new caramel recipe when the jingle of the bell on my bakery’s door announces Dante’s arrival at a quarter to four on Monday afternoon.
I freeze. He’s early. I should have known he’d be early.
My last three hours have been spent in intense concentration. It’s easy to let my mind wander when I’m making recipes I’ve made a hundred times before. But when I’m testing things, I want to make sure I take in every detail, notice every shift in color or texture, taste or smell. It has made it much easier to forget about why I’m here today.
But now that Dante has arrived, I can’t distract myself anymore—and I refuse to examine whether my heart has sped up due to nerves or anticipation.
“I’m in the kitchen!” I call. The caramel sauce I’m stirring has just started to thicken and I can’t walk away. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
There’s no response. But a second later, I hear the kitchen door swing open behind me.
“Give me a moment to finish this sauce,” I say without turning around. “I have your samples in the walk-in cooler.” I swirl my spoon around the pot a couple of times. The sauce’s texture is getting much closer to what I’m looking for, but it needs a couple of minutes before it’s perfect.
Dante still doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze on my back. The back of my neck prickles with gooseflesh, and though it’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation, it leaves me on edge.
“Are you trying to creep me out?” I say, finally glancing over my shoulder at him.
He’s standing there with the oddest little smile on his face. My cheeks instantly go hot. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says casually. He takes a step forward. “I’ve just never had the chance to watch you work before. Well, not at this, anyway.” He gestures at the kitchen around us.
“You saw me working the first time you came in here,” I remind him, turning back to my caramel.
“But not back here. This is your real element.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Uh… thank you. I think.”
He laughs, making me jump. I didn’t realize how near he’d come so quickly.
“I mean that you seem at home back here,” he says, far too close to my ear. “And it’s a pleasure to watch in motion.”
I snort and continue working, refusing to acknowledge his proximity. “I’m just stirring some sauce. Anyone could do it.”
“It’s still a pleasure.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Still, in my mind I can see him bent over his notebook, working on his latest script, and I remember vividly what an intoxicating sight that was. There was an energy there, a passion that was evident in even the smallest movement of his pen. He was just working, just writing, and yet I could have watched him for hours. It was him at his truest, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
“I did always love baking,” I say softly.
“I remember.”
“I guess in my head I always thought it would be an impractical career. Which is ridiculous, because at the time I was trying to make it in the film industry.” But I guess I have my parents to blame for that—both of them managed to build successful careers behind the scenes in Hollywood, and so it always seemed like a perfectly logical choice. “But though I love film, my heart wasn’t in it. Not like my heart is in this.” Not like Dante’s heart is in his writing.
“Mm.” The tips of his fingers brush my waist. “I’m glad to hear you found your passion.”
There’s a tightness in my throat, but why I’m getting so emotional over this I couldn’t say.
“Did you know?” I hear myself ask softly. “Back then, I mean. Did you realize that I wasn’t cut out for the movie industry?”
His fingers tighten on my waist. “You never do anything halfway, Ash. And you were always quite talented at school. I saw that. Everyone did.” He pauses. “I’ll admit, I always wondered…”
“What?” I prompt when he doesn’t finish.
“You left the program after things ended between us,” he says slowly. “I always wondered if I was to blame for your departure.”
“Oh.” I stop stirring.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. And then, “Well? Am I to blame?” His tone is perfectly measured, but the answer must be important to him if he’s asking this now, after all this time.
“Honestly, yes. In part.” My words are hardly above a whisper. “I mean—if things hadn’t ended when they did, I probably would have finished school and gone into the business as I planned. But after we… well, it was hard to be there, after. Whatever joy I’d found in… I mean, I was never like you, I just…” I shake my head. “Our breakup was the reason I told myself I was leaving, but honestly, quitting was the best decision I’ve ever made. I never belonged there in the first place.” He starts to argue, but I cut him off. “It was one of the last connections I had to my parents. I grew up hearing stories about their work, spending family nights watching classic movies, going to the movie theater every weekend. I love film—but not like them. Not like you. Some people enjoy movies. And others… that love burns through their blood. Inspires them. Drives them. It was never like that for me, but it took me a long time to recognize that.”
He doesn’t say anything, and it makes me nervous. I’ve never spoken so openly about this with anyone—not even Jack. It’s strange to finally admit it out loud.
“It might have looked like I was running away,” I say. “And maybe I was at first. But then I took my inheritance and opened this place, and even though getting this little shop off the ground was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, it’s energized me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I knew the minute I opened the doors of this place that this was what I was born to do. So I guess I have a reason to thank you.” It’s both exhausting and incredibly freeing to say that.
My sauce is bubbling, and I quickly lean forward, giving it a few stirs as I turn down the heat. My body feels heavy and light at once.
And Dante moves in behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back.
“No one who sees you here could ever doubt that this is what you were born to do,” he says in a husky tone. “It shines through you. It’s visible in every brick in this place. And, no doubt, through every bit of food that comes out of this kitchen.” He leans even closer, looking down over my shoulder. “What is it you said you were making?”
How c
ould such a simple, ordinary question sound so intimate?
“Caramel sauce,” I answer softly.
“May I try it?”
The color and texture are finally just about right—I see no reason to deny him a taste. I switch off the burner and reach over to grab a couple of the disposable plastic spoons I use for taste testing.
“It’s extremely hot, so let it cool a moment first,” I say as I scoop a little of the sauce up in each spoon. “And it’s a new recipe, so it might need some tweaking. I haven’t even had a chance to try it yet.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious.” He’s still right behind me, so I pass him his spoon over my shoulder. I should probably turn around and face him, but instead, I stay where I am as I wait for my sample to cool.
“Is this how you spend most of your days, then?” he asks, his mouth still too close to my ear. “Creating new confections?”
He speaks as if savoring the taste of every word. His questions aren’t particularly personal—honestly, they aren’t any different from the questions most people ask me when I tell them I own and run a bakery—but the words spoken aloud are only half of the conversation happening between us right now. Today is the first time we’ve spoken in any depth about the aftermath of our breakup, and that emotional tension is still there, lingering beneath the surface, coloring everything we say. And I won’t even let myself think about the conversation happening between our bodies.
“Not every day,” I answer. “I have to take care of the business side of things as well. And manage the custom cakes. And deal with supply vendors. And all that other stuff.” I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. When did I start feeling so flushed? “But it’s fun. It’s a challenge. And I love it.”
His hand brushes against my back. “I can tell.”
My chest is getting tight. “The sauce is probably cool enough now.” I shove my spoon in my mouth before I’m forced to come up with more conversation, and he brings his spoon to his mouth as well.
Thankfully, this latest recipe is delicious—damn delicious, if I may say so myself. It hits all the notes I wanted, and the punch of spice is just right.
“What do you think?” I ask Dante.
“I think you’re a caramel genius.”
In spite of the lump in my belly, I laugh. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Can I have another taste?”
“Greedy.”
“This is a tasting, after all.”
“A cake tasting. Not a caramel one.” But I grab a clean spoon and scoop up more of the sauce for him, then pass it over my shoulder once more.
This time, one or the other of us isn’t as careful—as I pass the spoon, a bit of the sauce drips off and onto my shoulder. I don’t usually bother wearing my chef coat on days when I’m here by myself, so I’m just in a cotton tee—and the caramel lands on the bit of bare skin that’s revealed just below where my neck meets my shoulder. I jump, then reach quickly for the kitchen towel I keep tucked in my apron.
“Let me,” Dante says as my fingers curl around my towel. Before I can say anything, he dips his head, and then the wet tip of his tongue flicks against my skin.
I freeze, my whole body going hot, then cold. His fingers spread against my waist as he cleans up the caramel—and he’s very thorough, continuing the slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue even when I’m sure the sauce is long gone. Goose bumps ripple across my skin as his lips brush against the base of my neck—first lightly, and then with more urgency, sucking at the sensitive skin. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back against his hips, letting me feel the hard length of him against my ass. He gives me one final nip with his teeth before pulling his mouth away.
“Yes, you are definitely a genius,” he murmurs.
I can’t breathe. I need to stay focused, to remember why he’s here.
“The cake is in the cooler,” I say, sliding out of his grip. “Let me go grab it.”
Never in my life have I been so grateful for a walk-in fridge. I hurry inside, and the moment the insulated door shuts behind me, I sink against the nearest shelf, trying to regain my senses. The cool air is a relief, and after a moment my flushed body starts to feel normal again.
Just do the tasting and get him out of here, I tell myself. Absolutely no more licking allowed.
The cake samples are on a nearby shelf, and as soon as I’ve regained my composure, I grab them and return to the kitchen.
Dante is looking around, casually examining my kitchen as if he wasn’t just licking my neck only a few moments ago. If he’s as affected by that contact as I am, he certainly doesn’t show it.
“Why don’t we go out to the tasting table in the front?” I say, eager to get down to business.
“We can do it in here, if you’d prefer,” he says. “As I said, I like seeing you in your element. And there’s no need for us to be so formal. I’m not just another customer.”
That’s exactly why I’d prefer to sit out front—the more I treat him like any other client, the more I can pretend this is only business—but I can’t seem to deny that smile of his. Without even consciously making the decision, I find myself laying out the cake samples on the workstation in front of us.
“We’ve got chocolate, strawberry, mocha, and orange sponge on this plate,” I say, uncovering the samples. “And on this one we have traditional white cake, spice cake, lemon, and a rosewater pound cake. I also have several flavors of buttercream and ganache for you to try with each so you can pick the combinations you like best.”
His eyes roam over the small squares of cake, and the enthusiasm I see in his eyes affects me in a way it probably shouldn’t.
“Where would you like to start?” I ask, going over to the shelf and grabbing a couple of forks.
His eyes gleam, and that smile is still on his lips. “You tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my face heating. “Try whatever you like. Maybe start with the more traditional flavors and go from there.”
I use a fork to scoop up a bit of dark chocolate ganache and a piece of the chocolate cake. “Try this.”
When he takes the fork from my hand, his fingers slide against mine in a way I’m sure is no accident, but I pretend not to notice. His gaze remains on mine as he raises this first bite to his mouth. I can see the moment it hits his tongue—his eyes widen slightly, then warm as the flavors sink into his taste buds. People react to good food the same way they react to a toe-curling kiss—something I never really noticed until I entered this business. Our bodies are designed to respond to sensual pleasure, be it a touch or a taste or a delicious aroma. I know this, but until this moment, I never realized how deeply, intimately pleasing it can be to watch someone react in this primal way to my food.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think I’d like another bite.”
I smile. “Okay. But let’s try a different flavor combination. How about orange sponge with vanilla buttercream?” I scoop up the flavors and pass him the fork. Again, I have a hard time keeping my eyes off his face as he tastes and swallows this new blend of flavors. Once more his physical, visible reaction leaves me breathless.
“Well?” I prompt.
“As I said before, you’re a genius. I can’t imagine anything you make being anything but mouthwatering.”
“Well, you’re going to have to start being pickier, because you can’t have all the flavors.”
There’s a dark glint in his eyes that makes his smile look devilish. “Then I guess we’re going to have to keep tasting.”
I give him spice cake with cream cheese frosting next, then mocha cake with coffee buttercream. He tries each while continuing to watch me closely—or is he just watching the way I watch him?
After the mocha cake, we finally start to get somewhere. He says, “That one is good, but I think I’d prefer something a little sweeter.”
“Let’s try the strawberry cake next, then,” I say. “Do you prefer cream cheese frostin
g or buttercream?”
“Hm…” Rather than wait for a clean fork, he scoops up a bit of the cream cheese frosting with his thumb and pops it into his mouth. Before I can say anything, he repeats the process with the vanilla buttercream. A flush creeps up my neck as I watch his thumb disappear between his lips.
“You do have a fork,” I remind him, looking away so that he doesn’t notice that I’m getting worked up over a simple thing like him licking his fingers.
“It’s more fun this way.” He scoops up another bit of frosting from the plate. “You’re a baker. Certainly you know this.”
“I don’t stick my hands in things I’m going to be serving,” I say. “And I certainly don’t lick my fingers while I’m working. The health department would shut me down in a minute.”
“Well, the health department isn’t here now,” he says. “And you’re not serving this to the public. Just me, and I have no issues with you licking anything.”
There’s no pretending that wasn’t a suggestive remark. “This is still business,” I insist. “And I—”
“Just one taste.” He holds out his hand, and about a teaspoon of buttercream sits on the tip of his index finger. I can’t believe that I’m arguing with him about this. He’s supposed to be the serious one. Not the one tempting me into breaking the rules. And though he’s right that these particular bits of cake and frosting will never be served to the public, I still find myself resisting. Especially since he’s holding his hand out as if he expects me to lick his finger.
But I can tell by the look on his face that he’s testing me. Teasing me. And I’m not exactly the sort of girl who backs down from a challenge.
Okay. I’ll play.
Rather than dip my head and lick the frosting right off his skin, I use my own finger to scoop off a bit of the buttercream and bring it to my lips.
“There,” I say after it melts on my tongue. “I’ve licked my finger. Are you happy now?”
“Not nearly.” He grabs my hand and lifts it up. “You’ve left a good bit of frosting on your skin.”
I’d hardly call what’s left on my finger a ‘good bit,’ but Dante isn’t going to submit to any rationality right now. “That’s what napkins are for.”