Page 20 of Infernal Affairs

“That I think you’re irresistible.”

The words land between us like a struck match.

I laugh softly, not out of nerves but sheer relief. “That’s the lemon curd talking. It has a way of stealing hearts.”

I duck my head, but I don’t let go of his sleeve.

“Is it?” His voice is quieter now. More honest. “Because I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.”

Just like that, we’re not standing in a kitchen. We’re suspended together in something molten, trembling on the verge.

He moves first, the barest tilt forward, and his lips barely catch on mine—not hesitant, not apologetic, but careful, soaking in every millimeter like he wants to memorize the taste of my surprise.

“Daisy,” he says again, as if finding new meaning in the word each time. “Did you put me under a spell?”

I feel my ears go up in flames.

“If I did, it was one of those cheap craft-store hex candles. Probably more likely to summon a sugar ant than a demon.”

That gets a huff of laughter.

“Good,” he says quietly.

“Good?”

His thumb brushes across my knuckles.

“I’d hate to give the potion credit for something I’ve been thinking about for months.”

CHAPTER 7

ENOCH

It’s been four days since that brief kiss in my kitchen, and my world has not, as feared, combusted in a chemical fireball of awkwardness and regret. The only thing incinerated is my ability to think straight anywhere within a ten-yard radius of Daisy Flowers. If I could bottle that scent—her shampoo, her laugh, the sugar-dusted warmth of her skin—I would. I am a demon. I should not feel like I’m in a perpetual state of soft, sticky euphoria. And yet, here I am, carving half-moons into my palm as I pace the office, pretending to review patient charts when, in fact, I am counting down the minutes until opening at the bakery.

It is not only the anticipation of seeing her face, though that’s potent enough to power a small country. It’s the fact that, sometime between her lemon tart and her hand in mine, I decided on a wholly new and reckless course of action. Humans call this “asking out,” as if it were a minor act of inquiry, not the risk of emotional obliteration. I am determined, for once in my wretched, long life, to be more than the clever demon in the shadows with the perfect nodding advice.

So I do what I have never done before: I leave my work unfinished, slide on my coat, and cross the micro-park that separates my office from her bakery in exactly thirty-eight seconds. The wind is sharp, filtering through the narrow streets and carrying with it the yeasty promise of the day’s first batch of bread.

I tell myself I’ve timed my arrival for the tail end of the breakfast rush, but I’m too early. There are still four customers ahead of me, two of whom are debating the merits of cinnamon buns versus maple crullers as if it’s a matter of public policy. Daisy weaves between them with an ease I envy, her braid swinging, her cheeks glowing pink from the oven. She wears a turquoise headband and a cardigan the color of wild violets. She catches my gaze before I can look away, and for a fraction of a second, the world becomes a tunnel between the back counter and the cash register, silent except for the staccato of our mutual pulse.

She beams, and the next minute is a blur of brown paper bags, bottles of cider, and the jangle of the bakery bell. When it is finally just us, she leans one elbow on the counter and grins as if daring me to surprise her.

“Enoch. You’re early.”

She has that tone, the one that makes me want to do ridiculous things, like sing or give her a piggyback ride through City Hall.

“I wanted to ensure you didn’t run out of breakfast,” I say, which is not a lie. I haven’t eaten since last night.

She raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you eat breakfast?”

“I am told it’s the most important meal of the day.” I scan the glass case and then, very deliberately, point to the smallest, pinkest cupcake on the tray. “I’ll have that one, please.”

She tries and fails to suppress a giggle. “You sure you don’t want something more... dignified?”

“That’s the one,” I say.

She boxes the order, sliding it across with a faint showmanship that makes me want to break into applause. I pay—cash, on the off chance the universe decides to humble me with an awkward card-declined moment—and push the cupcake back in her direction.