Lia stands and hugs me. “Call me later and tell me everything.”
I wave at the table, ignoring Levi’s overprotective stare, and let Kane lead me out of the convention room to the elevators.
“This is crazy,” I whisper as we step into the cab. “Aren’t you here with anyone?”
“My agent, Peter,” Kane says. “He won’t miss me. Donating the piece is for a good cause, and making a personal appearance sold a few extra tickets. But I showed up, and now I’d like to spend some time with the mysterious cake artist that I’ve managed to run into twice in two days.”
“I’m really not that mysterious.”
“You are to me,” he says, and once the elevator reaches the penthouse, he takes my hand and leads me into his room.
Which is way too generic of a word for what this is.
Kane’s staying in the biggest suite the hotel has to offer. Not just a room.
He leads me into the living area that has floor-to-ceiling views of the lights of downtown Seattle.
“Would you like some wine? Or anything, for that matter? We can order room service if you’d like.”
“A glass of wine is great.” I sit on the couch and cross my legs, watching as Kane walks about the space, opens a wine fridge, and pulls out a bottle of white. He uncorks and pours and then passes me a glass.
He’s a tall man, with long limbs and broad shoulders. His white shirt hugs his muscles when he takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.
God, I love the way a man looks in a white shirt with rolled sleeves.
And then, when tattoos are revealed on one of his arms? I almost spit out my wine.
“Tell me more,” he says as he sits across from me.
“I feel like I’m in a job interview.”
He sips his drink, watching me. “I haven’t any interest in hiring you for any job. I just want to get to know you.”
“Why?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Because I’m interested. And that means I want to know more. You’re a beautiful woman, Anastasia.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you get into cake design?”
“I thought I wanted to be a chef.” I grin at the memory and kick off my heels, pulling my feet up under me to get comfortable. “All my life, I told anyone who would listen that I’d be a famous chef someday. And then I went to culinary school, and I was awful.”
“How so?”
“It just wasn’t for me. I burned things, spilled things, you name it. Being clumsy when you’re pulling a roast out of the oven isn’t convenient.”
I see laughter in his eyes as he nods. “I can see that.”
“But then we had to do a rotation through the bakery, and I fell in love with it. Suddenly, I wasn’t clumsy anymore. It was like my body just knew I was supposed to be there, and it all clicked. I enjoy working with sugar, the different mediums of it. My favorite is sugar sculpture, but it takes a lot of time and is expensive, so I don’t do it often.”
“Do you have photos of some of the cakes you’ve made?”
I blink at him, surprised. “Do you have a phone? You can Google me.”
“I never carry a cell, and I’ve never Googled anything in my life,” he replies.
“Are you a time traveler? This is 2020, Kane.”
“All the phone does is interrupt my work, so I refuse to have it with me. It’s probably dead in my kitchen right now.”
I smile, charmed by him, and open my clutch to pull out my own phone. My inhaler falls out onto the floor and lands at Kane’s feet.
He fetches it and passes it to me.
“Thanks.”
He looks like he wants to ask questions, but before he can, I wake up my phone and bring up the album with my cakes. I gesture for him to sit next to me.
“You can just swipe left to look at the photos.”
He settles near me, takes my phone, and looks at each photo intently, almost as if he’s going to be quizzed on them later.
He comes to a cake I did last year. It has four tiers and is covered in magnolias.
“The flowers are pretty. Does the florist deliver them to you?”
“Those magnolias are sugar,” I say softly, and smile when Kane’s gaze whips to mine.
“They look real.”
“Thank you. Each one took me two hours.”
He looks back down at the phone. “How do I look closer?”
I pinch and spread my fingers on the image to magnify it for him.
“Incredible,” he murmurs. “I’d love to see the tools you work with.”
“Ditto.”
He grins at me and then returns to the photos. Once he’s seen all of them, he passes me the phone and waits while I put it to sleep and return it to my clutch.
“You’re a talented woman, Anastasia.”
“You can call me Stasia. Most people do.”