Page 15 of The Sweetest Ingredient

“Um, no. Actually, I enjoy cooking at home.” He pointed at my book. “And you?”

“I’m on the hunt for a new read.”

“What did you pick out?” He squinted at the paperback in my hands.

Unashamed of my reading preferences, I held the book up. “A steamy romance...at least I hope so based on the cover.”

“A guilty pleasure?” A hint of amusement laced his voice.

I waved my hand dismissively. “I read my romances loud and proud. Life is stressful enough, so I see nothing wrong with getting lost in a fictional world of happily-ever-afters.” I flipped hair over my shoulder. “So what if I’ve read Pride and Prejudice like twenty times? There’s no reason women should feel embarrassed for enjoying some escapism and fantasy.”

A flicker of admiration shone in his eyes. “I meant no offense. Everyone deserves to embrace the stories that bring them pleasure without judgment.”

His open-minded response sent a rush of gratitude through me. How often had I felt the need to justify my love of romance novels to others? Yet here was someone who accepted me, literary tastes and all.

The bookshop was hushed and serene. The idea of spending a quiet afternoon reading in each other’s company seemed incredibly appealing. Unless…

“Do you like ferrets? Taxidermy?”

His forehead scrunched. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” I gestured toward the reading area. “If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t we take our books and hang out?”

Bishop shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We settled into the plush sofas with our respective books in hand. Engrossed in our reading, I couldn’t resist peeking over at Bishop, admiring the way his brow furrowed in concentration. It appeared he was doing the same, our eyes occasionally meeting before returning to our pages. Bishop was like a chapter that I was curious to explore.

“You asked me during the, uh, interview where I saw myself in five years, so how would you answer that same question?”

He lowered his book, his gaze softening as his brown eyes met mine. “I’ve often thought about establishing a culinary school, one that emphasizes traditional techniques. It would be nice to pass on a genuine appreciation for the craft to the next generation.” Bishop’s voice held a warmth I hadn’t noticed before.

A smile tugged at my lips. “I’ve always dreamed of merging my love of graphic design with baking. Like starting my own brand of pet treats.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh? I think you mentioned it during the interview, but I thought you were joking.”

“Nope,” I said with a tilt of my chin. “I was serious.”

“Sounds ambitious.” The corners of Bishop’s eyes crinkled. “You know, you’re always the one asking questions. How about you tell me something?”

I fidgeted with the edge of my book. “Well, I have this collection of vintage Jane Austen novels I found at a yard sale. They’re, like, my most cherished possessions. I’m a big fan of her novels and the movie adaptations. That’s my happy place. What about you?”

“For me, it’s my grandparents’ old wedding bands that I’ve held onto,” Bishop said, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “More than anything, those rings represent their love and partnership while building the bakery together…” He paused, glancing down in thought before meeting my gaze again. “I suppose we all have those sentimental objects that remind us of what matters most.”

“That’s so sweet. I think you’re a romantic at heart.”

Bishop cleared his throat. “I also handcrafted my own wooden rolling pin.”

Apparently, his interests went beyond sourdough starters and pie crusts. Who knew?

Then a fleeting image of Bishop, shirtless and intently carving a piece of wood, flashed in my mind. I blinked, casting a sheepish glance at the steamy romance cover resting on my lap.

“That’s really impressive.”

Bishop nodded, seeming pleased I appreciated his craftsmanship. “It’s all about patience and practice, but the payoff is worth it.” He rubbed his thumb over the worn cover of the cookbook in his lap. “Much like perfecting a new recipe.”

Golden sunbeams streamed through the windows and highlighted the stubble on his face and the golden brown of his eyes. Crushing on my boss wasn’t a great idea. I knew that, but I couldn’t help it. He was just so darn tempting, like a freshly baked cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven.

He slowly turned a page in the cookbook resting on his lap, the soft sound filling the air. “During that interview, I left out a few questions. Like, any pet peeves?”

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