Chapter 3 #3
Not hiding but peeking through blinds. Standing there in full view, palm pressed flat against the glass, chin tilted, watching me with a slow, knowing smile. The exact mirror of what I did, the same pose he caught me in, and he’s throwing it back at me, wanting me to know it.
I burst out laughing, and I can’t help it. It breaks out of me, and he’s grinning, satisfied, then he pulls away.
I collect my laptop, my grapes, my phone, and my dignity—what’s left of it—and walk inside with measured, casual, completely-not-affected steps.
The back door closes behind me. I press my shoulders against it and stand there in my kitchen with my pulse roaring and my cheeks burning and a smile I can’t remove from my face.
Did that just happen? He was flirting. I’m certain of it.
And that slap… was it meant for me? I’m giddy all over, and my phone rings.
Katie. Thank God.
“Claire.” Her voice is vibrating at a frequency that suggests caffeine, excitement, or both. “Tell me you’ve seen it.”
I play dumb, knowing exactly what she’s talking about. “Seen what?”
“Don’t you dare play coy with me. Brody from ManBaker just uploaded a video of himself making your sweet buns, and it’s everywhere, Claire.
He tagged you, credited the book, and the comment section is losing its collective mind.
Your book just jumped eighteen spots on the cooking chart.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. The publisher emailed.
They haven’t emailed in two months, and now they’re emailing because a shirtless man slapped some dough on camera and told millions of people to buy your cookbook.
Do you know how hard it is to get such an endorsement?
You clearly made a huge impression at the book signing. ”
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the wood, knees up, phone pressed to my ear. “Katie.”
“This is huge. I told you he was interested. The man bought your book, stared at you for ten minutes, and now he’s promoting you. You need to reach out to him, build on this. This is the kind of exposure we’ve been—”
“Katie.”
“What?”
“He’s moved in next door to me. Brody’s my new neighbor.”
Silence. “I’m sorry. Say that again.”
“The shirtless baker with the famous cat. He bought the empty house next door to me, and he’s been living there for two weeks.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“He’s right there. Through the fence. I just had a full conversation with him in my backyard, and his cat sat on my chest. I’ve also been watching his videos through my curtains.” I’m giggling at myself.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. I need to come over. I need to see this. Have you been inside his house?”
“No. I barely managed to talk to him over the fence without my glasses fogging up.”
“Claire Darling, you are living in a romance novel, and you don’t even know it. This man is gorgeous, famous, clearly obsessed with you, based on that video, and he’s your neighbor. With a fence you can lean over and—”
“He’s not obsessed with me. He made a recipe from my book. That’s professional courtesy.”
“Right, and it involves slapping dough while shirtless and calling someone delicious in front of all their followers.”
I press my free hand to my face. She’s not wrong. I hate that she’s not wrong.
“Okay,” Katie says, shifting into agent mode, which is the tone she uses when she’s already three steps ahead and expects me to keep up.
“This is your chance. Get to know him, be friendly. Be your charming, funny, gorgeous self that you refuse to believe exists. Because if Brody keeps making your recipes on camera, your book sales will recover, the publisher will come back to the table, and that horrific interview clip gets buried under a mountain of content featuring your name next to the hottest food blogger on the internet.”
“You make it sound so strategic.”
“It’s also the universe handing you a gift wrapped in abs, and you’d better not send it back.”
“Fine, I’ll be friendly.”
“But I want daily updates. Hourly, if possible. I want—”
“Don’t you have plans today?”
“Oh God. Yes.” Her voice drops into theatrical dread. “My mother and her new boyfriend are driving into town. Did I mention the boyfriend is twenty-eight?”
“You mentioned.”
“He has a son. Who’s coming along for the trip. He’ll be, what, seven? Eight? I’m going to spend the day pretending I’m thrilled about my mother dating someone who could be my brother.”
“Want to swap? You can stare at my gorgeous, half-naked neighbor through the blinds, and I’ll go charm your mother’s boyfriend’s preteen.”
“Don’t tempt me.” She laughs. “Okay. I have to go. But, Claire?”
“Yeah?”
“He called you delicious. That is not a man who made a recipe for professional courtesy.” She hangs up.
I sit on the kitchen floor for a full thirty seconds, grinning at my phone. Then I get up, go to the couch, and hit Play on the video one more time.
The rolling pin. The wink. The slap. The caramel drizzle. The groan.
Recipe from the incredibly talented (and delicious) Claire Darling.
I watch it three more times, and I’m swooning again. I close the app. Open it again. Close it. God, I’m in so much trouble.