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Arlo looks at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I guess because he likes eating everything Al bakes. He’s been coming in here twice a week for the last six weeks and buying one of everything.”

The tension in my body curls around my chest, and I suck in a shaky breath. How did I not know this? “Jackson Maine has been eating my— Arlo! Why didn’t you tell me this before?—”

Before I can finish, Imogen shoves Arlo out of the doorway and damn near sprints through the bakery.

Arlo barks out a confused laugh. “What the fuck?”

Stomach knotting, I hurry after her. What is she planning to do?

The sight of her at the café’s counter shaking the hand of a tall, stunningly gorgeous man in a white linen shirt and jeans makes me grind to a halt. Holy shit, itishim. He’s really here.

And he’s shaking Imogen’s hand.

“Jackson Maine,” I hear her say from the kitchen door, a flirty heat in her voice. “I am so honoured to meet you.”

“What the fuck is she doing?” Arlo whispers beside me.

Mouth dry, head roaring, I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Get your arse over there, Al. Before she tries to pretend she’s you.”

Arlo gives my back an enthusiastic push, and I stumble out into the dining area with a surprised grunt, fully ladened tray of muffins still in hand.

And slam into Jackson Maine.

The tray flattens against my chest, the edge of the tray swinging upwards to smack into the coffee mug he’s holding. The mug jolts upwards, its contents fanning up into the air in a dark-brown glistening wave to splash all over his neck and the front of his pristine-white linen shirt.

“Oh shit,” Arlo mutters behind me in an I’ve-fucked-up voice.

I want to spin around and glare at him. I want the floor to open up and eat me, in the exact way Jackson Maine has apparently been eating my pastries, muffins, cakes, and cookies. I want to throw up my hands and scream in frustration. Of all people to run into, it had to be the prince of pastries?

Instead, I cover my mouth with my hand and stare up at him.

His blue eyes lock onto mine.

God, he’s gorgeous.

A frown creases his forehead. Coffee drips from his chin. “Excuse me?” he says. He’snothappy.

I do what I always do when I’m ridiculously stressed and under pressure. I burst out laughing.

Thankfully, my palm muffles most of it. I hope.

“Oh shit,” Arlo repeats from the kitchen door. This time in anAl’s-fucked-up whisper.

Imogen gapes at me. “Alaina? What are youdoing?”

Jackson’s frown deepens, and his gorgeous blue eyes narrow a little. “Aliana? As in Aliana Barker?”

Dropping my hand from my mouth, I brush at the muffin carcasses on my chest, the crumbs sticky but still so light and moist. My blueberry and white-choc muffins drizzled with dark chocolate ganache sell out every time I bake them, and I’m devastated no one got to try them today. Especially Jackson Maine, who’s currently studying me like I’m a dubious souffle.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m she. I’m her. I’m Al. Aliana. Aliana Barker.” I pull in a deep breath and let it out, forcing myself to relax. “Hi, I’m Aliana Barker. Sorry about the coffee.”

An enigmatichmmmvibrates low in Jackson Maine’s throat.

He towers over me. And he smells so good. Like expensive cologne and cinnamon and vanilla. I stop myself leaning closer to him and drawing in a deep breath. As far as first impressions go, I’ve already crashed and burned. Do I want to make it worse?

“You’re the one responsible for the extra five kilograms I’ve put on this last fortnight?” he asks, his tone as enigmatic as hishmmm.

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