Page 7 of Win a Date with a Baker

Silence stretches between us. Then she bumps my shoulder. “And besides...”

I already know I won’t like whatever comes next. “...you deserve a fun night out.”

“I have fun nights.”

“You work.”

“I like working.”

“You go home.”

“I like home.”

“You fall asleep watching TV.”

“I like… TV.”

She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t dated in...” She starts counting. “...actually I’m not sure I can count that high.”

“I’m busy.”

“No.” She points a finger at me. “You’re hiding. You’re hiding behind baking.”

I don’t answer.

Mostly because she’s annoyingly close to the truth.

By six-thirty, I’m regretting every life choice that’s led me here.

The restaurant the auction organizers picked is exactly the kind of place I’d never choose.

Everything is marble. Everything is gold. Everything is… tiny.

Tiny chairs. Tiny cocktails. Tiny portions.

All seven courses.

If your meal has more courses than a full schedule at college, something isn’t right.

The hostess smiles. “Your date is already here.”

Lucky me.

I straighten the collar of the one decent button-down shirt I own and follow her through the restaurant.

Then I see her. And every coherent thought leaves my body.

No fucking way.

It’s her.

The woman from last night. The one with the camera. The one I’d accused of being another influencer.

She’s standing when I reach the table, smoothing invisible wrinkles from a pretty emerald-green dress that somehow makes her eyes look even brighter.

Her hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder.

She’s… beautiful. Abso-fucking-ly beautiful.