Page 4 of Mister Sexy Pants

I’m giddy from the flirting. It’s almost too good to be true. “But see, I don’t think I’d include beer in my favorites. We’ll just have to agree on three out of four for our list.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “I can work with a seventy-five percent match.”

Match.

I’m zipping inside. “So, what’s good here these days?” I ask, glancing toward the cake selection.

“Is this your first time here?”

“No way. I’m definitely not a Peace of Cake virgin,” I say, savoring the way the V-word rolls off my tongue like sugar—and what it does to him.

His eyes darken. His nostrils flare. He takes a beat, then says, “Then you should have a little of everything. It’s our special today.”

“Tempting. What does a little of everything taste like?” I ask, hoping no one else comes in the shop this evening. An unlikely scenario, since Peace of Cake is almost always deluged with last-minute customers before it closes. This sliver of time with Mister Flirt will end all too soon.

“It tastes like what you should have.” The rasp of his voice thrums deliciously across all my erogenous zones, which, right now, include every single molecule in and on me. Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s recalibrating. Downshifting. “But I’d also recommend the vanilla celebration cake. It goes with polka dots,” he says, his gaze sailing up and down my dress.

“I’ll take it.”

As he moves to the display case, strong arms reaching in to grab the cake, I try to look away. And I fail miserably. I am officially an ogler.

True, I have a thing for blazing guns like his. But I’m omnivorous, really. I want toned arms, kind eyes, a clever brain, and a big heart.

I want it all. That’s probably why I’m holding my V-card at age twenty-six. I haven’t met someone who revs my engine on all cylinders.

I’m not sure one guy in a cake shop will tick all my boxes, but I’d like to learn how many checkmarks he can make.

He glances my way. “Want me to bring this to you at a table or the cake bar?”

There is only one answer. The cake bar runs along the counter. If I sit there, I can keep talking with him.

“The cake bar,” I say with a small smile as I move away from the register and along the counter, where I pop onto a tall metal stool.

“Good choice,” he murmurs. He slides a sharp knife through the cake, then serves it, handing me the plate and a fork. “I hope you enjoy it, Miss Polka Dot.”

I roam my gaze over him. “I hope so too, Mister Dessert.”

He smiles and then turns away to wash his hands. I check my phone. I’m a terrible friend for hoping Ellie might be later still.

The universe must be granting wishes today because a new message blinks up at me.

Ellie: Don’t hate me, but I can’t make it. Trains are slow, and I need to get to the set!

Veronica: I’m glad you didn’t make it, and I’ll tell you why later.

Then I put the phone away and take a bite of cake, chased by flirty, dirty hope.

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