I press my lips together but, in the end, can’t help asking, “When did she pass?”
“A long time ago,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was eighteen.”
Under the table, I wrap my feet around his leg and give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine, making my chest feel even tighter. “Thanks. She was an amazing chef. It was her scone recipe that helped me snag that 8.”
“Oh, West,” I sigh, surprised to feel the back of my nose start to sting. “That’s great. She would be so proud of you.”
“I hope so. In any event, it was nice to have her with me today. That’s why Abby and I quit our boring day jobs to open the shop. For Mum. It’s been our secret plan since we were kids.”
I press my free hand to my heart and whisper, “Stop it.”
He arches a brow. “Stop what?”
“Stop being so…perfect.”
He grins one of his wicked grins. “I’m far from perfect. I have many unlikeable qualities. I can be very bossy.”
“Yes, I really hate that about you,” I say dryly, pulling my hand from his and crossing my arms.
His low, sexy laugh makes it clear he knows I love his bossiness, especially in the bedroom. “And I’m impatient and judgmental, especially with people who don’t share my values.”
“Values are important.” I find myself confessing, “As someone who’s been cheated on by every serious boyfriend I’ve ever had, I get that. I need someone who shares my values.”
West scowls, a dark look that actually makes me sit back in my chair. “What absolute pieces of shit. They all deserve to be castrated. Slowly and painfully.”
I smile. “I think the painful part can probably be taken for granted with that. But thanks.”
I take a breath, prepared to change the subject, when he says, “My last serious girlfriend saw me as more of a blank check than a boyfriend. Turned me off relationships, to be honest.”
I need to make a mental note in Sharpie that West isn’t looking for anything lasting. My squishy heart often wants more than a man can give. Must not forget he’s happily single.
“That’s understandable, wanting to steer clear of anything complicated.” I don’t want him to think I’m a clinger. I want him to know I understand the score. I respect his stance.
He motions toward himself. “Plus, not to brag, but I have several other excellent qualities on offer aside from my bottom line.”
I nod. “You really do.”
He frowns. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“No, you absolutely do. You’re great.” I pick at my napkin as I add, “I’m glad we’re friends.”
Friends.
We. Are. Just. Friends.
And that might be all we’ll ever be. He’s not interested in a relationship. He made that clear the night we met, and he just underlined it in red ink. And I can’t blame him for feeling that way, not when I said the same thing myself.
But I’m starting to realize that if I spend much more time with West, I’m going to fall in love with him. Deeply, wildly, madly in love. He checks so many of my boxes. Add in the fact that he’s so kind and willing to be vulnerable and calls me “adorable” in a way that makes me believe he really means it, and I’m on a collision course with heartache.
Not to mention having my focus shot to hell right when I need it most. If I don’t blow past him at the challenge in four days, I won’t have a chance of winning Mrs. Sweets.
But when he says, “So, friend, would you want to come to mine for a nightcap? I promise I’ll send you home in plenty of time to get your beauty sleep,” I find myself nodding and sliding out of the booth.
Just one drink.
How much trouble can I get into during one teensy tiny little drink?
12
Gigi
The answer is two fingers.
As in two fingers worth of whiskey in this Sazerac.
This heavenly, disgustingly good cocktail, both sweet and bitter, that’s taking the express lane to my head.
I tap the glass. “This is officially unfair.” I kick a petulant foot back and forth as I sink into the plush gray couch in West’s—I can’t believe I’m saying this—library.
The man has a freaking library.
With floor-to-ceiling shelves. And old books. And new books. And a ladder.
I just can’t.
I might come just from staring at the books.
But I’d rather stare at the man who can mix drinks as well as he bakes.
“What’s not fair, love?” West knocks back some of his drink then sets it down on the table next to my purse, cupping my knee with his warm hand, sending a rush of tingles through me.
Tingles that settle between my breasts, making my nipples hard.
So does the idea of banging on that ladder.
“First, the library. Second”—I gesture his way—“your face. Third, the drink, which is divine. All of it, unfair.”