“Bakery,” he slowly repeats as if weighing the word on his tongue.
“Suga-Suga,” I explain.
This time he chuckles, and holy mother of hotness, the sound does something to my insides. Turns them to liquid is what it does, actually.
“Like Baby Bash?”
My jaw drops open. “Because of Baby Bash! I actually can’t believe you got the reference!”
He smirks at me, making my pulse race. “I happen to be a Baby Bash connoisseur. Can’t believe you’d think so little of me after knowing me for less than five minutes.”
I blush. “It’s not that. I guess I’ve met enough people who come into the bakery saying, ‘Cute name, is it because your cookies are extra sweet?’. Really gets on my nerves.”
“Are your cookies extra sweet?”
I have the distinct feeling we’re not exactly talking about baked goods, considering how his eyes trace the curves of my body. I’m glad I wore a dress today.
I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, helping my best assets shine. Do your magic, boobs. “Very much so.” I wink at him. “So you’re a Baby Bash connoisseur? Name one other song.”
He blinks once, twice, then shakes his head and opens his mouth, releasing a voice of liquid gold as he sings of cyclones, spotlights and bumpers. He somehow makes it sound like it all makes sense–shaking rompers and all. I’m pretty sure my mouth is wide open as I watch him. I did not expectthat.
“I may have exaggerated. That’s the only other song of his I know,” he chuckles at my expression. “Now, about those dicks.”
“Ah, yes.” I blink away the absolute fascination with this attractive and surprising man. “I have an assistant. She’s lovely. Pure sweetness and southern charm.”
“And she likes dicks?” He lifts his eyebrow. The cheeky bugger.
“We all do,” I smile sweetly. “But that’s beside the point. She’s great with customers but not so great with the actual assisting.”
“Oh?”
“She forgets about pre-orders that were placed with her, doesn’t show up on time and mixes deliveries up… And that’s just today,” I sigh.
He nods, encouraging me to keep going.
“I had to bake and frost two orders this afternoon, ones she forgot were placed over a month ago. Barely made it by the skin of my teeth, I tell you. Had frosting all over me at one point. But I made it. I baked and frosted over two hundred cookies. Two hundred! Then I let Nancy pack them in their boxes, ready for delivery, while I went to wash the frosting off of my body—”
“You mustn't have done a good job.” His voice drips over me like liquid chocolate, and once again, I can almost taste the attraction between us. Something stirs deep in my womblands.
I self-consciously pat my hair. “Oh, is there some left on me?”
“No, but you smell divine. Continue.”
Trying very much not to imagine him walking over and licking my skin from head to toe, I clear my throat. “Right, so I go to wash off, and my assistant shouts that she’ll deliver one of the orders since they’re on opposite sides of town. Great, saves me driving in traffic. So I grab the box she left,” I point at the box next to me, “and make my way to the delivery address, as per the note on top of said box.” Once again, I point. “Imagine my surprise when I take a peek inside and find the wrong cookies.”
“Surely it’s not a big deal. It’s the Christmas party season. No one would notice the difference.”
“No one would, except the other order wasn’t for a Christmas party.”
“Oh?”
I turn the box around, open it and slide it across the coffee table towards him like we’re in Pulp Fiction and I’m Marcellus Wallace with his suitcase.
He pushes himself off the desk and closes the distance between us.
“Dicks,” he states, looking down.
“Yup,” I confirm.