Page 5 of Mister Sexy Pants

3

Other Words for Dating

Milo

Dear Self,

Joel did not ask you to fill in today to flirt with his customers. You are here to serve cake while he takes his wife—your very good friend—to an ultrasound appointment. You are not here, you dirty stinking pervert, to check out the absolute fox in the pink dress with the white polka dots, with that chestnut hair curling just so over her shoulders and those plush, red lips. Nope. You are here as a good friend and absolutely nothing more.

Sincerely, the Angel on Your Shoulder

Except, what’s so wrong with flirting? It’s not like anything is going to come of it. I know better than to get involved because dating leads to disaster, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

But it’s been a while since I’ve had a great conversation, and I doubt I’ll see this woman again.

Angel, stand down. Devil, you’re up.

I hang around her side of the cake bar as she picks up her fork and takes a bite of the slice in front of her.

“Mmm. Ten out of ten. That’s my review.”

“Are you a reviewer?” I ask, bracing myself. Online reviews are the bane of my existence.

Laughing, she shakes her head. “Nope. But I could leave one on Google if you’d like.”

Aww, that’s sweet. “I appreciate it, but there’s no need. The Internet is a terrible thing. We should abolish it.”

She shoots me a doubtful look. “Damn. We were vibing for a while there, Mister Dessert. We might be three out of five now.”

I groan, over the top style, as I wipe down the counter. “Nooo. Don’t break my heart. You love the Internet? Imagine how much nicer people would be to each other if they didn’t have the keyboard and a screen to hide behind.”

To hide their lies.

“I’ll grant you that, but I’m not one of those Internet haters. You’re not going to be able to back me up against that wall,” she says, dipping the fork into the frosting.

I’d like to back her up against the wall, hike up that dress, and grind against her.

She brings the fork to those lush lips, then licks off the frosting, savoring it, doing indecent things to the utensil with her tongue.

I whimper.

Must focus.I shake off the dirty thoughts like a dog getting out of the shower. “You know how it goes. You’re in synch. You’re out of synch. Before I know it, you’re going to tell me you don’t like”—I pause to cast about for something universally beloved—“flowers.”

She scoffs. “C’mon. That was a softball. Who would possibly hate flowers?”

I laugh, then set down the rag next to the sink. “Sometimes you need softballs. So we are officially back to four out of six. Which is sixty-six percent, if you were wondering.” I wiggle a brow like I just said the sexiest thing.

“You are such a percentage showoff.”

I take a bow, then park my hands on the counter. “What they don’t tell you in middle school is that percentages are the only math you’ll ever really need as an adult.”

“I call them the unsung heroes of math,” she says, then waggles the fork my way. “Want a bite?”

I want to bite her shoulder. Lick her neck. Nibble on her earlobe. “I would, but I can’t eat on the job,” I whisper, shaking my head in faux annoyance. “The boss is such a hard ass.”

“Oh, I bet he is,” she says.

“He’s the worst,” I tease, because Joel runs a tight ship. “So I must resist your very tempting offer.”

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