So, no. she’s not stalking me. Quite the opposite. “I should alert my security team to be on the lookout for a beautiful blonde digging through my trash.”
If sunlight had a sound, it would be Cherise’s laughter. “I’m kidding. Armand put in an order for your breakfast meeting with the contractors, so I extrapolated from that.”
I nod. “You’re very thoughtful.”
When I bite into her bun, I taste pure joy. Buttery, sticky, and just the right amount of cinnamon. Not too messy to require a fork but just messy enough. The happiness I feel is not just about how they taste but how they make me feel. “There’s that orange I thought I smelled.”
She smiles even brighter if that’s possible. “A lot of people put a bit of orange juice in their icing, but what puts it over the top is the zest.”
“I don’t see any zest,” I say.
She gestures dramatically while she explains subjecting orange peel to liquid nitrogen, then pulverizing it into powder to blend with the butter and sugar.
I would much rather watch Cherise talk about liquid nitrogen than go to this meeting today. “These are the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted.”
When I lick the icing off my fingers, a deep shade of red washes over her cheeks.
“I embarrassed you somehow, and I’m sorry.”
Cherise replies, “Oh not at all, sir! Your opinion means a lot to me. So glad you like them.”
Her eyes then fall to my chest. “Oh shit!”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Continuing to curse, Cherise runs around the kitchen, dampening a clean cloth with cold water and rushing back to me to dab at the front of my suit jacket.
I’ve dribbled icing on my lapel like an absolute gorilla. What is wrong with me?
“It’s all right, Ms. Williams. I eat like a slob; please forgive me.”
“Ah, don’t be silly; I should never have given you a sticky pastry in the first place. What was I thinking? Please send me the dry-cleaning bill.”
I must admit having her up close to me like this affords me a nice whiff of her hair, and I like it. I’m getting a faint hit of herbal shampoo.
“I will do no such thing. I want these cinnamon buns for breakfast every day for the rest of my life, whatever I’m wearing—a suit, or pajamas, or nothing.”
Her face turns up to me, and her eyes are level with my chin. “Sir?”
“I’m serious. I’ll eat these suckers in the shower, don’t think that I won’t.”
Cherise snorts and shakes her head, then looks at the spot on my jacket. “There. I think that should take care of it for now, but you might want to change for your meeting.”
I very much enjoyed the way she was rubbing my chest a second ago, and I would like that to continue. She’s not saying anything, and I’m not saying anything. However, we’re still standing extremely close together, just looking at each other. A part of my brain has latched on to her phrasing and tone, and it feels like she’s my wife telling me to switch jackets for work. I shouldn’t let my fantasy get the better of me, but I allow myself to go there, just for a moment. It can’t hurt. What if this was our kitchen at home, and she was feeding me breakfast and teasing me for being a messy eater? What if I spilled icing on my bare chest, and she helped me clean it off with those gorgeous, dewy lips? I imagine all sorts of sticky sweet scenarios, and each of them fills me with deep, pained longing. Fantasizing can hurt, it turns out. It hurts me to no end. “I’ll do that, Cherise.”
The pastry chef’s eyes flash up at me as she takes a step back to watch me strip my jacket off.
Just then, her phone rings again.
“Pardon me, sir. I have to take this.”
I could be way off, but something tells me she’s reluctant to answer.
Immediately her demeanor changes when she’s on the phone, and I don’t like it.
“Hi! Did you get a chance to look at Orchid online?”
Again, I take a guess at who’s on the other end. I don’t want to leave her alone right now.