Page 3 of Mister Sexy Pants

2

Man Dessert

Veronica

This kind of opportunity calls for a celebration.

Since my sister’s on deadline with her next novel, I text my friend Ellie and ask if she has time to meet me for a slice of cake.

Ellie:We have an evening shoot, and I’m due on set in forty-five minutes, but I can meet you for ten of them, and I promise to make it the best ten minutes of your day.

Veronica:I don’t know about that, honey. The ten minutes I spent with The Flyer this morning were pretty damn good. But time with you is always a treat too.

Ellie:As if I’d try to compete with The Flyer. No mere mortal, man or woman, ever could.

Veronica:I suspect that’s entirely true. See you at Peace of Cake.

I walk to my favorite cake shop in the city, stopping at the gleaming white storefront in Chelsea. A selection of mouth-watering delights beckons me from the lavish window display—luscious chocolate slices, delicate pink frosting on sponge cake, festive mint green slathered over vanilla.

This is heaven.

I push open the door, hunting for my friend in the empty shop, which closes in thirty minutes. I don’t see Ellie, but I find an absolutely stunning piece of dessert behind the counter.

Man dessert.

I’m gonna need a minute to gawk.

Hello, hottie. With a trim beard, strong jaw, and inked arms, the man arranging cakes in the display case belongs on the cover of one of my sister’s romance novels.

I’ll buy a dozen copies, thank you very much.

The man turns my way and flashes me a smile that zings straight down my body. Make that two-dozen copies.

I smile back, and as I head to the counter, my phone pings with a new text from my friend.

Ellie: Running late. Please forgive me. If you must start without me, I understand. Cake is just too hard to resist.

But cake isn’t the thing I’m going to have a hard time resisting.

Staring is.

At the counter, I meet the gaze of the blue-eyed man with a winning smile. “What can I do for you?” he asks. “We’ve got cake if that’s what you’re in the market for. But if you’re looking for the meaning of the universe, I make no promises.”

That’s a hell of an opening line, and it makes me laugh. It also challenges me to come up with something that matches the promise of him. “Are you fending off that many requests for existential answers?”

“I am. But the slogan says it all.” He points to the words on his apron. Cake Is Proof.

“That makes perfect sense.” I meet his playful gaze with one of my own. “Cake is, indeed, proof there is meaning in my universe.”

“What a wonderful universe,” he says with a spark that makes me want to keep playing word ping-pong.

“But I might have to add dogs and books to the evidence,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind the addendum.”

He scoffs. “Do I look like the type of person who’s bothered by addendums?”

I arch a brow, resisting a smile. “What does that type of person look like? I’m trying to draw a mental picture and I’m coming up blank.”

“What would they look like?” He points his thumbs at his chest. “Not this guy. I think addendums are fantastic. Especially when they involve books, dogs,beer, and cake.”

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