Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty Five
Paige
I lock the door, flip the sign, and turn the “OPEN” to “SEE YOU SOON.” The bell gives one last polite jingle like it’s saying goodnight. The street outside is soft with late light, and next door, The Pint is still alive with laughter and music. A roar of laughter cuts off as the door shuts again.
I turn away and back to the now-empty bakery.
Ben is already at one of the little bistro tables near the front window, a notepad open, pen in hand.
He looks like he came straight from a shower—hair damp, a clean tee that does too many things to my heartbeat, forearms bronzed from hauling kegs and fixing doorstops.
Between us sits a cinnamon roll the size of a steering wheel, still warm enough to be soft and shiny with glaze.
“Negotiation fuel,” I say, sliding into the chair opposite. “If we get through three solid ideas, we get a bite.”
His mouth kicks into a grin. “Bribery. A classic management technique.”
“It’s effective.” I slide a pen toward him, tear the top sheet off my pad because the first page has turned into a graveyard of old to-do lists and dough smudges.
“Okay. Film fest.” I underline it twice and draw a box around the date because that makes it official in my brain.
“You have your stand like always—pretzels, brat bites, the walking tacos—”
“And beer,” he says, dry and fond. “Minor detail.”
“Right,” I say, fighting a smile. “And I begged the organizer and promised him a lifetime supply of carrot cake to get my own stand this year.”
Ben’s brows jump. “It’s not easy to charm Murray.”
“I weaponized cinnamon,” I correct. “Bribery, right? Anyway, I was thinking—what if our booths share a footprint? Or at least touch corners so it’s like a little lane: Pint and Pastry.”
“That’s dangerous,” he says, eyes going soft like he’s already building it in his head. “I like it.”
I flip to a clean page and sketch two rectangles, scrawl PINT on one and SWEET C on the other, draw a little arrow pointing both directions like the world’s cutest roundabout. “Then we plan pairs. Not just ‘beer + dessert,’ but intentional things. Like… cinnamon roll with a… cinnamon beer?”
He tips his head back, thinking. “I can do a cinnamon-honey brown on a pilot keg if I start tonight. But it might be tight for conditioning.” He taps the paper with the pen, calculating. “I’ve got the spiced amber from winter—subtle cinnamon, not potpourri. That would play nice.”
“Potpourri is not the vibe,” I say, mock solemn.
“What about a beer cocktail?” he offers. “Half amber, splash of hard cider, cinnamon sugar rim. We call it a Snickerdoodle Shandy.”
My pen freezes mid-scribble. “That’s obnoxiously cute.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” I admit, and write it in big loopy letters like it’s already on a chalkboard.
He leans forward, forearms on the table, reading upside down. Our knees bump under the table. I tell myself it’s nothing. My pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“Also,” I say, flipping the page, “cupcakes and cocktails. You can do cocktails at the stand, right?”
“Beer cocktails, yeah. And we’ll have our two batched signature drinks. And NA options,” he adds, eyes flicking to me and away in the same breath. “I’m playing with a ginger-lime spritz. Heavy on the real ginger. Been getting a lot of practice with that lately.”
My cheeks warm at his easy smile. “I will be its number-one fan.”
“I intend to keep you on payroll as chief taster of all things non-alcoholic.”
“Perks.” I jot: GINGER LIME SPRITZ / LEMON COOKIE? then circle it. “We could do a ‘Director’s Cut’ cupcake flight—three minis: dark chocolate ganache, lemon poppy, and a caramel corn thing. You do a flight of pairings. For the chocolate, something stout-adjacent?”
He nods, thinking. “If I pour our nitro porter at lower volume, it’ll hold in a keg bucket just fine. Chocolate cupcake, porter shot. Lemon poppy with the spritz. Caramel corn with… Hoffman Heritage.”
I write while thinking the pairings over. “You think it’ll pair?”
“Always a crowd favorite.” His mouth slants. “Sometimes it leans more caramel and sometimes toastier. We can change it depending on which.”
“That’s a good idea. If it’s more caramel, I can pair it with a salted caramel, and if it’s toasty, maybe a brown butter frosting?”
“Yeah, and make sure you do plenty of samples before then, so we really get a good idea of what we’re dealing with.” He nods, his face serious.
I nod, matching his seriousness. “I’ll make sure of it. Your tummy can rest easy.”
“Tummy?” He lifts a brow. “I’m a man, Paige. We don’t call it a ‘tummy.’ We prefer abdominals. Midsection. Core,” he says, trying and failing to look dignified about it.
“Then your core can rest easy,” I amend, deadpan.
He taps the notepad like a judge ruling in my favor. “Better.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll make… a frankly irresponsible number of test cupcakes so your core can render a verdict.”
He leans back, long legs stretching out under the table until his boot nudges my ankle. “My core accepts these terms.”
Heat skitters up my shin at the casual contact. I pretend to study my scribbles. “Okay, so Director’s Cut flight, Snickerdoodle Shandy, ginger-lime spritz… maybe a ‘Matinee Special’ for kids? Lemonade and mini sugar cookies shaped like film reels?”
“Cute,” he says, then smirks. “Illegal levels of cute.”
We brainstorm like that for a while—names that make Ben groan, like Reel neither of us looks.
His hand finds my knee under the table and rests there, warm through denim, not coaxing, just… there. The steadiness undoes me more than a grab would. I lean closer until the little bistro table complains under the shift of weight.
He steadies it with one hand without breaking the kiss, and the competence of that—of him—does something to me I’d rather not analyze.
I slide my fingers up his arm, following the flex and swell of muscle.
His fingers flex against my knee, not pulling or pushing, just—there.
As if he can be content with that and let me lead.
It would be so easy to fall into it, to slide my fingers up and up, to find out if he wants this as much as I do.
So instead I pull away, just a breath, just enough to see his face.
He lets me.
His pupils are wide, lips parted, eyes gone heavy-lidded. The expression is a drug, a power, and a warning, and I am absolutely too stupid and greedy to take any of them.
His hand flexes again, a reminder that he hasn't moved.
I slide my palm along the line of his arm, and his eyelids flutter, his shoulders tightening.
I curl my fingers around his wrist, testing, and his breath catches, his mouth brushing mine again.
I press my palm flat against his skin and feel the pulse under my fingertips, his chest expanding and contracting.
I slide my thumb to his palm and feel the catch and curl of his fingers.
It's so intimate, this. Feeling him react, feeling the tension, the need, the control. Knowing I could undo him with a touch, and he'll just let me.
It's so much. It's everything.
"We're supposed to be planning," I whisper, and he swallows the words, and kisses me again, and pulls away.
"We did plan," he says, his voice hoarse and low. "We have... many bullet points." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "We can have one more."
I can't catch my breath. I can't move. All I can do is watch him watch me, and feel the pulse under my hands, and the ache under my skin.
"Okay," I whisper, and let him pull me closer.
He tastes like cinnamon and sugar, like everything I want. I curl my fingers around his jaw and sink into the kiss. I don't want to stop. I never want to stop.
He slides his hand higher, just a bit, his palm hot through denim. His mouth leaves mine, trails heat along my jaw, lingers at my pulse, then lower. His stubble scrapes my skin and makes me shiver.
"You," he breathes, "are the most tempting thing I've ever seen."
I pull away and watch him, the flush rising on his cheekbones, his pupils wide, his hair mussed.
"So are you," I tell him, and lean in and kiss him again.