Page 26 of Resisting the Grump

Except I did understand. As much as I hated to admit it, I was excited to go out with this guy. This man. Because he was a man. I could no more picture his shovel hands around a video game controller than I could imagine him forgetting his wallet at dinner. But I was nervous. Not only because Oliver’s undivided attention was a flavor of intensity I’d never experienced before but because, to be honest, I felt a little rusty.

For months, I’d been behaving myself. For months, I’d been saying no to every opportunity that wasn’t a hell yes. For months, I’d been replacing the batteries in my vibrator every time I got the urge to reinstall Tinder.

And then our chance meeting happened so organically. We met. There were sparks. He pursued me. It seemed like giving him a chance was the polite thing to do. Plus, the menu for the place looked amazing. I was slightly unsettled by the high prices, but I had to assume he wouldn’t take me there if he couldn’t afford it. Not that I hadn’t been burned making that assumption before. Still, I’d offer to go Dutch like I always did even though something told me he wouldn’t be up for that.

After all, all signs pointed to this being a carefully crafted seduction on his part. But to my surprise, I actually found his honesty refreshing. When he admitted he wanted to sleep with me, he didn’t start undressing me with his eyes. He just said it like a man reciting his license plate number or stating the time. Like his desire for me was a fact. Just thinking about it made my tummy flutter.

Speaking of time, I was running out of it fast. I’d buffed and shined my body from head to toe to give myself the mental edge I needed to face Oliver Harrington across the dinner table. But unless Mary Poppins rapped on my window in the next thirty seconds, I’d have to deal with the mess of clothes in my bedroom later. Then again, maybe that was for the best. Can’t accidentally jump into bed with a guy if he can’t find your bed!

I glanced at the clock on my phone a moment before it rang in my hand. “Well, if it isn’t the winner of the Star Baker Festival.”

Grace laughed. “I wish I could say that was getting old.”

“Are you kidding? It hasn’t even been two weeks. I’d say you can dine out on that for at least a few months.”

“I was hoping you’d say years,” she said. “I’ve actually been thinking of changing my legal name to Grace Star-Baker.”

I laughed as I modeled two different heels in front of the floor-length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door. My short green dress was one of the flirtier outfits in my wardrobe, but I liked how the delicate white flowers along the bottom looked when I twirled. It was a girlier look than I’d usually go for on a first date, but I felt like the only way to balance out Oliver’s overwhelming masculinity would be to embrace my feminine side.

“Kayleigh told me you guys had a busy week.”

“Crazy busy,” I said. “But in a good way. I think the only time I felt a little overwhelmed was during the Thursday lunch rush, but we got through it. No question business was boosted by the festival, though. There’s no other explanation for the footfall we had this week.”

“So, the place is still standing?”

“Taller than ever.”

“And what about the winning pie recipe? Do you feel like you’ve got a handle on it?”

What did she think I was going to say? No? And risk stressing her out when she was supposed to be enjoying her hard-earned vacation. “I don’t want to brag, but I could braid apple strudel crust in my sleep.”

“You’re the best.”

“I’m sorry you’ve missed the joy on people’s faces. One woman even said—and I quote—‘I can never afford to buy any of the stuff on Oprah’s favorite things list, but at least I can afford to treat my family to this year’s winning pie.’”

“Wow.”

“Right? I felt extra good about that sale. Especially since you and I both know you couldn’t have invented a more labor-intensive, pain-in-the-ass recipe if that had been your main objective.”

“Sorry, what was that? I can’t hear you over my Star Baker award.”

I rolled my eyes. “Touché.”

“Anyway, it sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Maybe I don’t need to hurry back from Paris after all.”

“Stay as long as you like but know that I can only sustain these hours if I get a fat raise.”

“I’m not unwilling to negotiate,” she said. “But based on how things are going, we’re still planning on catching our flight home. The idea of living in Paris permanently is fun to fantasize about, but I’m liable to turn into a macaron if I keep up this pace.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” she said, her voice warm. “So much.”

I walked over to my closet and stood on my tippy toes so I could pull down one of the smaller purses I saved for those special occasions when I wanted to seem decidedly dainty. It was small, but at least it had a strap so I wouldn’t have to clutch it all night or set it on the table.

“What about you?” she asked. “How are you unwinding after your big week?”

“I’m going out to dinner, actually.” I scrunched my face, half wishing I hadn’t mentioned it.

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