Page 9 of Stuffed

I lean against our vintage display case, watching Ivy work her magic with the cookie batter. "Is it that obvious?"

"Sweetie, you color-coded financial projections and burned perfectly good chocolate trying to recreate his favorite high school cookies and he hasn’t even kissed you yet. I'd say you're about as subtle as a neon sign."

"I just…" I trail off, fiddling with my glasses. "I want him to see that I'm not that same starry-eyed teenager anymore. That I've built something real here."

"Oh, he sees it, alright." Ivy shoots me a knowing look as she slides another tray into the oven. "I watched him at the party. The way he couldn't take his eyes off you when you were talking about the bakery. That man isn't just interested in our profit margins."

Heat creeps up my neck. "That's not—he was probably just surprised I can string together a coherent business plan."

"Please. He looked at you like he wanted to devour you right there between the appetizers and champagne tower."

"Ivy!" But I'm laughing, even as my stomach flutters at the memory of how intense his eyes were that night.

"I'm just saying," she continues, dusting flour off her hands. "Maybe it's time to stop dancing around each other. You're not in high school anymore, Tess. You're a successful businesswoman who knows what she wants."

"And what if what I want is completely terrifying and probably impossible?"

"The best things usually are." She starts measuring out more coffee grounds. "But you'll never know unless you take that leap."

"Since when did you become so wise?" I tease, trying to mask how much her words affect me.

"Since I watched my best friend spend a decade pining after the same bad boy, only to finally have a real shot with him. And I might have taken a few pointers from you pushing me to go after Asher. So, I’ll remind you what you said to me before…" She points her whisk at me accusingly. "Don't waste it."

The oven timer dings and she pulls out a perfect batch of cookies, the rich aroma of chocolate and coffee filling our kitchen. As she transfers them to a cooling rack, I can't help but think about the time I watched Zane sneak these same cookies from the cafeteria, always when he thought no one was looking. Suddenly, anxiety unfurls in my belly. Maybe he won’t even remember those cookies. Maybe this grand gesture is going to end up being some ridiculous embarrassment instead.

"Do you really think—" I start to ask, but the bell above our door chimes, cutting me off mid-sentence. My heart nearly stops.

Zane walks in alongside Asher, looking as serious and intimidating as ever in his perfectly tailored black suit. His eyes scan the space, taking in every detail—the exposed brick walls, the vintage fixtures, the display cases waiting to be filled. When his gaze finally lands on me, something flickers in his expression.

And just like that, I know I'm in trouble. Because no matter how many times I tell myself to be professional, to keep my distance, one look from Zane Mercer still has the power to make my world tilt on its axis.

Now I just have to convince him that sometimes the scariest leaps lead to the sweetest landings.

Chapter 4

Zane

The bakery smells like sugar, coffee, and temptation—three things I typically avoid at all costs. But as I follow Asher through the door, something else catches my attention. Something familiar.

Dark chocolate espresso cookies. My weakness, even after all these years.

"Well?" Asher mutters under his breath. "Planning to stand here all day or actually walk through the doorway?"

I shoot him a glare, but my attention is immediately drawn to Tessa. She's standing behind a makeshift desk, looking professional in a black pencil skirt and cream blouse. But there's a smudge of chocolate on her cheek that makes something twist in my chest.

"Mr. Mercer," she says formally, "thank you for coming."

"Miss Marlow." I keep my voice cool, professional. "I assume you have those projections ready?"

She straightens, reaching for a binder that's color-coded within an inch of its life. "Everything's here. Five-year growth strategy, market analysis, projected revenue streams?—"

"And why exactly should I care about any of that? About any of this?” I glance around the space again. “Besides what my brother may or may not see in all this.”

Her eyes narrow. It’s clear my curt response shocks her but she doesn’t let it stop her. She squares her shoulders. "Because despite what you might think, this isn't just some cute little bakery project. We've done our homework."

"Have you?" I step closer, close enough to catch the vanilla scent of her perfume. "Show me."

She opens the binder, launching into a detailed analysis that actually catches me off guard. Her numbers are solid. Her projections, conservative but promising. And the way she walks me through their strategy…

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