Page 2 of Win a Date with a Baker

She swats my arm. “You’re not very good at comforting a person when they’re down.”

“I know.” I wince. “But I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of surprise?”

“The best kind.” I grin as I start the car. “We’re getting donuts.”

Her brows fall. “Donuts?”

“Not just any donuts.” I pull away from the curb, and take a shortcut that’ll get us away from the worst part of tourist traffic. “We’re gettingthosedonuts.”

She gasps. “The viral bakery? The one you’ve been stalking for months?”

My lips. “I prefer ‘enthusiastically supporting a local business.’”

“You have a setting to notify you of new posts.”

“All the better for me to support them.”

She laughs again, this time it sounds more real. “You’ve watched every video that ridiculously hot baker has ever posted.”

“I happen to appreciate good craftsmanship when I see it.”

“You appreciate his forearms.”

Two things can be true. Of course, I can never give her the satisfaction of knowing it’s mostly what she said. This baker may have the best buns in town. But his forearms? Divine.

And, it also doesn’t need to be said, by my bringing her here tonight isn’t completely accidental. We both know I’ve been dying to visit in person. And I have a particularly good reason to come now.

Consider it recon for a little something I have scheduled later this week…

By the time we reach the bakery, Kathryn’s mood has lifted enough that she no longer seems to be on the brink of tears.

The storefront glows like a beacon against the Vegas night. Warm amber lights spill onto the sidewalk, and through the front windows I can already see rows of glossy brioche donuts, artisan loaves stacked on rustic wooden shelves, and customers lingering over late-night coffee.

The place looks exactly like it does online. Maybe even better.

“Wow,” Kathryn breathes.

I can’t help smiling. “Right?”

Maybe carbs can fix almost anything. Or at least make it hurt a hell of a lot less.

The second we step inside, I know I’m in trouble.

Warm vanilla wraps around me like a hug. Beneath it lingers browned butter, cinnamon, fresh bread, and something citrusy that reminds me of orange zest.

It’s heaven. Absolute, carb-filled heaven.

Kathryn sighs beside me.

I nod. “I know.”

The bakery somehow manages to feel cozy and upscale at the same time. White subway tile climbs the walls behind glass display cases filled with pastries so stunning, they should be in a museum. Tiny eucalyptus arrangements soften the industrial lighting, while oversized pendant lamps cast everything in a warm golden glow.

“It’s exactly like the videos,” I whisper.

Kathryn nudges my shoulder. “You’re such a fan girl.”