So Much More (Made for Love #3) (9 page)

A grin spreads across my face as I catch a glimpse of her from behind before she turns to face me. I lock us in as I assure her, “What you’ve got on is perfect. My biggest rule is no open toed shoes. Also, if you’ve got long hair, it’s gotta be pulled back. But you’ve got that covered already.”

“Great. One more thing—I brought my own apron. Is that okay? It’s not that I’m trying to be, like, special or anything—I’m just attached to it. I used to take it to school with me and put it on whenever I had lunch duty. Kids and messes kind of go hand-in-hand.”

My grin stays firmly intact as I listen to her, her uncertainty causing her words to come out hurried. Honestly, she could ask me just about anything right now and I wouldn’t be able to deny her. I’m entirely too happy that she's here. Just the same, I decide to mess with her a little. “Well, I don’t know. Let’s see it,” I insist, folding my arms across my chest.

“Okay.” She sets her things on a nearby table and turns her back to me as she digs through her bag. I see a flash of pink as she finds the object in question and loops the top strap over her head before securing the ties around her waist in a bow.

When she turns around, revealing a pink apron covered in white polka-dots, my smile slips and my cock twitches. It’s certainly not the reaction I was expecting, but the cut of the apron accentuates the swell of her breasts and I can’t help but notice. Somehow, she’s managed to look
alluring
and
adorable
all at once.

Look all you want, but you can’t touch.

“Um,” I finally manage. “It’s good. Yeah. You can wear it. Not a problem.”

“Thank you.” She grins at me and I know I won’t survive this day. “So, where should I put my things?”

“Come on back,” I tell her, happy for the distraction. “I’ll give you a quick tour before we get started.”

After he shows me the lay of the land and I stow away my things, he brings me back to the kitchen. It smells
amazing
and I don’t hesitate to tell him as much.

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, pulling out a stool and signaling for me to sit. “Your first order of business will be to try everything that’s on the menu today.” My jaw drops open as he sets a plate full of pastries in front of me.

Best. First day. Ever.

“You don’t have to eat it all—”

“Oh, but can I?” I mutter, reaching for the first scone that I see.

He chuckles. “Eat as much as you’d like, just be sure to try everything. It’s important that my staff knows what everything tastes like so you can describe it to customers who have questions. I make the pastries on a weekly rotation, unless I get a special order.”

As soon as the buttery scone begins to melt on my tongue, a moan I can’t contain forces itself from my throat. “You made this? This morning?” I ask with a mouthful.

He nods at me with a smirk.

“Am I eating a butter pecan scone?”

He nods once more, his smirk turning into a smile.

Shit. I’m in so much trouble. How in the hell is my battered heart supposed to compete with
that
smile and
this
scone made by
that
sexy man who I keep imagining in nothing but his damn apron?

Too much smut. I’ve been reading too much smut!

Or maybe not enough…

“Remember, you have to try everything. I’ll be right back,” he tells me, leaving me with the plate of deliciousness.

By the time he returns, I’ve tried his lemon poppyseed scone, his apple-carrot-raisin loaf, his cinnamon swirl coffee cake, and I’m
devouring
his blueberry crumble muffin. I can’t even bring myself to be ashamed of my gluttony—with four more things left to try.

“That one’s a best seller,” he says with a wink as I polish it off.

If baked goods are my weakness, Brandon’s baked goods just may be the death of me. Especially if they come with a wink.

I look away from him, afraid I’ll start staring if I don’t. I reach for another pastry as I pull my phone out of my pocket, needing a better distraction just as much as I need to share the discovery of my new favorite muffin.

Me:
OMG. If you think my baking is good, you haven’t LIVED until you’ve tried Brandon’s blueberry crumble muffin.

To my delight, and relief, she shoots back a text almost immediately.

Aria:
Yum! Guess I know where I’m coming for lunch…

Me:
Dear Lord—I just bit into a chocolate zucchini muffin. This job is going to make me SO fat.

Aria:
Lol. Are you eating the whole pastry case or what?!?

Aria:
Josh teaches a kickboxing class three nights a week! (MWF) Come with me!

Me:
YES! Also—I really am eating the whole pastry case. Boss’s orders.

Aria:
Clearly I’m in the wrong profession.

Aria:
Anyway, gotta jet. Can’t be late for work. See you at lunch! Happy First Day!!!!

“If you finish that entire plate, I swear, I’m giving you a raise.”

I look up to find Brandon not two feet away, leaning against the work island where I sit, watching me. It isn’t until I look down at the plate that I realize I’ve now eaten two whole muffins and at least half of everything else.

If I were a blushing woman, my cheeks would be on fire. Lucky for me, I only blush when I’m intoxicated. Right now, I’m just drunk on sugar, which is
so
much better and much less embarrassing. Yet, when I think about it, I recognize that I’ve never been embarrassed about my ability to consume an obnoxious amount of baked deliciousness. When my eyes move from the plate to meet Brandon’s hazel irises, I remember that it’s
him
that’s making me anxious.

I clear my throat and try and think of something clever to say to dispel the awkward moment that’s filled with my silence. “Hi. My name is Sarah. I’m a sugarholic…I’m about ten seconds sober.”

He laughs and I temporarily forget
why
I’m not supposed to want him. “Hi, Sarah.”

“Too bad about that raise,” I quip, pushing the plate away from me. “I can’t eat another bite.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” he tells me before he reaches for the remnants of the lemon poppyseed scone and pops it into his mouth.

Dammit. Don’t watch him eat. Is eating supposed to be sexy? Or is that the sugar talking?

“So, I’m trying to work out the schedule. Before I add you in, I wanted to make sure I didn’t put you down for when you’re not available.”

“Oh—I’m yours whenever. I mean—” I sit up straighter, shaking my head to clear my mind of the various—
and more preferable—
ways that statement could be interpreted. “My schedule is open. I can work whenever.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to my slip-up.

“Yeah. Well—no,” I correct myself, remembering my recent text exchange. “Could I have Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings off? And Sunday, maybe? Wait—when do you usually take off?”

“I don’t work Sundays. But if you need that day off, we can make that work. Joey is my Sunday guy. He’s got a key.”

“Sunday is your only day off?” He nods his reply, his focus directed to the notepad in his hand. I realize how excessive my requests sound, knowing he’s here six days a week, and I’m quick to change my mind.“I’m sorry. Forget everything I just said. I’m new—I’ll work when you tell me to. If you need me to work Sundays—”

“First of all, don’t apologize. I don’t want anyone to feel like they can’t have a life because they work here. I’ll figure it out; it’s okay,” he assures me, pulling his eyes away from the paper to look at me. “Tabitha, Joey, Rachael, and Eryn are all students—when school’s in session, they pull a lot of evening shifts. Now, do you do something on Sundays you can’t do any other day?”

“Um, yeah. I go to church. Well, sort of.”

He lifts an eyebrow as he folds his arms across his chest. “Sort of?”

“I’m
sort of
in between churches at the moment. Anyway—if you need me on Sundays, I’ll work.”

“No. You’ll have Sundays off. You can come to church with me,” he says, returning his attention to his notepad. “I’ll make sure to have the schedule completed by the end of the day so you can have an idea of how to plan the rest of your week.”

His invitation is so nonchalant, matter-of-fact, and quickly discarded, I almost miss it. “Wait, what?”

“The schedule—”

“No, before that,” I say, waving my hand as if I’m pushing time itself back a few seconds.

“You and me. Church. Sunday,” he says, smiling as he continues to scribble on the page in front of him.

“Really?”

He tucks his notepad under his arm and shoves his pen into his knotted ponytail as he reaches for another unfinished pastry. “In my experience, when my life is a mess, God has a way of cleaning it up a bit. The world sucks and people are complicated and shit happens. I don’t know what the world threw at you, but you’re more than welcome to come to church with me on Sunday.” He tosses the pastry into his mouth and then nods as he makes his way around me. “Come on, let me show you how to open the register.”

For a moment, his statement has me frozen in thought. What I said to him yesterday, my admission that my life’s a mess these days, he heard me. I find it incredibly sweet that he seems to care. At the same time, I feel undeserving of his compassion. He’s got it figured out wrong. The world didn’t throw anything at me. I’m the one to blame.

“Sarah?” he calls from the front.

I reach for the last bite of the cinnamon swirl coffee cake, hoping it’ll help ease the ache in my chest. I don’t have time to indulge my emotions just now. I’ve got a job to do.

W
HEN ARIA WALKS INTO
LB at one o’clock, I’m incredibly relieved. My sugar high wore off a while ago and Brandon has been pumping me full of information for hours. It’s not so much the
information
that is wearing me down—it’s the constant battle between my lustful heart and my stubborn brain that does it. As I try and remember everything Brandon is teaching me, I can’t help but commit a few extra details to memory.

For instance, the way he smells—his hours spent in the kitchen have coated him in a mouthwatering aroma of baked deliciousness; but when he gets close enough, I get a hint of what lies beneath. It reminds me of laundry hung out to dry on a spring day—fresh, clean, but with this dangerously tempting undertone of earthiness. And his hair—it’s silky and thick. I know this not because I’ve touched it, but because as the day wears on and his ponytail loosens, a few strands fall from the confines of his hair tie and into his face. I couldn’t help but notice every time he swept a piece behind his ear until he gave up and re-knotted his luscious mane.

When I looked away, annoyed with myself for not being able to ignore my attraction to him, I noticed that Eryn and Tabitha had watched him right along with me. Eryn winked at me when she caught my eye and then turned back to the register. Tabitha giggled before she told me they love watching him do that; she then proceeded to tell me that they’ve only ever looked but never touched. Apparently, he doesn’t date much. Furthermore, he’s more
buddy-buddy
than
flirty
.

Her observation makes me wonder about the moment he and I had just yesterday—when he told me to keep my chin up.