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He never asks why a bakery needs seven versions of the same spatula. He scrapes chocolate from bowls, stacks sanitized pans, and dries sheet trays without putting one in the wrong section. When Cameron arrives with twenty insulated bags, Kane helps him sort the route by zip code and asks me before moving a single order.
“Can the Park Slope delivery leave with the Cobble Hill group?” he asks.
I check the addresses. “Yes, but the anniversary cake needs to stay upright. It has sugar roses.”
Kane looks at Cameron. “If the roses smear, don’t bother coming back.”
Cameron stops smiling. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Heh... heh... you’re joking... right?”
Kane doesn’t smile. “Am I?”
With one more gulp, Cameron takes the bags and departs at impressive speed. He is very, very careful with the cake.
I scowl at him. “Your management style needs work.”
He just winks. “You have your methods. I have mine. But I guarantee you this: Those sugar roses will arrive perfectly intact.”
For the next four hours, we work amid butter, chocolate, hot metal, and door chimes. Kane meets each courier at the rear entrance. He counts boxes before they leave and brings the signed delivery sheets to Jolene.
He even learns our labeling system, which makes him the first man I have dated who understands that writing cake on a box containing a cake contributes nothing useful.
At two thirty, I finish a tray of petits fours and scrape excess frosting from my thumb.
Kane returns from a delivery count. I hold my hand in front of him before I can decide whether this is a good idea.
He takes my thumb into his mouth.
His tongue removes the frosting. His eyes stay on mine.
Priya chooses that moment to look up from her station with a piping bag in hand. When she sees Kane sucking my finger, she squeezes too hard. Raspberry filling shoots across the table and strikes Angelica’s apron like arterial spray.
“Equipment failure!” she announces. “Nothing to see here!”
I blush and get back to work.
By four, we enter the final pickup stretch. Thirty-one boxes remain on the racks. Jolene calls names, Angelica verifies inscriptions, and Priya checks each refrigerated order before it reaches the counter. I move from station to station because every paid order leaves through my front door with my name printed on it, so I want to be sure it’s right.
Kane steps behind me at the steel table while I seal a cake box.
His hands settle on either side of mine. He cages me against the edge without touching anywhere else.
“You have been giving me orders for twelve hours,” he says. “How does it feel to be the one in charge?”
“Terrifying. I can’t imagine you’re enjoying it, either.”
He nips my earlobe. “Oh, how wrong you are. I like seeing you in your element. It’s sexy.” His mouth brushes the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Think I can see you in your office for five minutes, Chef?”
Oh, God.
I want to turn around. I want to lock the front door, send my staff away, and discover whether the desk can survive the kinds of things I’d like to do on top of it.
But my bakery still has thirty-one pickups waiting on the racks.
“Rain check,” I mumble.
Kane steps away at once.
He doesn’t complain or take a final touch because he thinks I owe him one. He returns to the sink and reaches for another bowl.
