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“You… you don’t need to do that. Honestly.”
“And you don’t need to drag yourself home to another cold bowl of chili,” he rumbles with a knowing look. “Tell me what you need.”
Out of arguments, I point him to a broom and start on the tables, swiping the crumbs aside so he can catch them as he goes past.
As we work, we talk about the Sugar Bowl. I run him through the routine, from the pre-opening prep to closing cleanup.
He asks probing questions.
Like where we source our ingredients, how often they’re delivered, whether we have a website and what state it’s in. The last one’s pretty embarrassing—wedohave a website, but it hasn’t been updated in seven years, and it shows.
We’re barely equipped to answer emails, much less handle mobile orders. And when it comes to having a nifty app, I might as well wish for a unicorn.
An hour later, I can’t say I mind the extra muscle.
Working together, we blow through everything a lot faster than usual. I set Dex to mopping the front while I clean up the equipment in the back.
“What about your plans for upgrades and renovations?” he asks as I exit the kitchen. The floor’s almost finished, too, gleaming wet and smelling like fresh lemon. A floor that we’ll have to dosomethingwith eventually if we ever want to shake off decades of wear and grout grime. “I made a tentative inventory last night of the stuff I’ve seen here, but I was wondering what you were thinking.”
He made an inventory? Last night? On his own time?
He needs to stop before I cry.
“We don’t have to talk more business,” I tell him. “It’s getting late and we’ve got a good start.”
I hang my apron up and switch off the lights, plunging half of the store into darkness. He looks diabolically good when he works like that, the shirt tight against his back with his biceps bunching.
Damn, those muscles.
I shouldn’t be looking and I know it.
He’s my fake fiancé, not a piece of red meat.
I close the distance between us, trying not to check him out obsessively, even though that’s totally what I’m doing.
“Well, if you really want to know, I’m thinking about replacing the mixers and ovens first and—”
I’m not paying attention. My feet slide out from under me and the next second I’m windmilling violently, flapping my arms and trying to catch my balance.
For a hot second, everything slows down.
I hear Dexter swear.
I feel a thick, strong hand grabbing my arm and jerking me up.
Before I can blink again, he hauls me upright and suddenly I’m against the wall in front of him, barely breathing.
Yes, it’s every cheesy rom-com scene come to life, complete with the clumsy almost-fall where the hero literally sweeps you off your feet.
In the movies, this is where Prince Charming kisses me like he can’t live without me. And I’m flustered but I’m able to breathlessly confess how much I want this, how I’ve been dreaming about him nonstop.
Oh, I’ve definitely done some dreaming, all right.
But since this is real life and not a dream, I’m just an overheated mess.
I’m pressed against the wall with Dexter Rory leaning over me with less than an inch of space between us, that firm hand still on my upper arm, his heat impossible to escape.
He smells so intense, that teakwood cologne doused in testosterone.
