Chapter 12 Sweet Edging #3
For a few seconds, doubts bombard my brain. Am I just barreling forward, my way or bust? Is this even how you partner with someone? Shoot. It’s not. You don’t say, I came up with the name, take it or leave it.
“You can say no,” I say earnestly. “I swear, I won’t be upset. We can do a whole brainstorming session.”
“Mabel, can I open my eyes now?”
“Since you asked nicely.”
He opens them, cocks his head, and reads the sign. “You were right. It’s naughty.”
I twist my fingers together. “And?”
He steps closer, inspects the name again, and looks me over. “So I can say no?”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to let on how much I hope he’ll say yes.
“I can veto this or anything else? Like, say you wanted to serve oatmeal raisin cookies.”
My nose wrinkles. “I’m feeling triggered.”
“Or if you wanted to offer gingersnaps.”
“That’s a trick question.”
“Or rice pudding.”
“I think you mean glorified rice,” I scoff.
He studies the name once more. But still, he’s silent.
“Corbin,” I press him.
“Oh, sorry, I thought you liked edging,” he says, but it’s more like he drawls it.
He’s taking his time with his words, like he’s taking his time with me.
He gives me a sexy, lazy smile. My stomach flips, and my thighs ache, and I’m jumping ten steps ahead to what would have happened in the trailer if he’d pressed me against the door and satisfied all my cravings.
My gaze drifts to his hands. Big, strong hands. Long fingers. Clean nails.
Do I like edging? I think I might from him.
I force myself to look right back at those mischievous green eyes.
“I do,” I say, my voice huskier than it should be.
“Good,” he says, then steps right next to me, so close I can smell his aftershave. The scent of campfire and a summer lake teases my nose. I try not to inhale it, but I’m a sneaky little thief, and I lift my face just enough to catch a second hint of it.
My chest warms.
And my gaze stays locked on this man as he traces the words I’d written in bright pink script. Slowly, teasingly, he says each letter like he’s tasting it the way he tasted frosting on my cheek last week.
When he’s done, he turns his face to me. “I like…Afternoon Delight.”
And I’m so hot and bothered it takes me a second or ten before I process the fact that he likes my naughty bakery name.
“Really?”
“I really do,” he says, then adds more soberly, “I’d tell you if I disagreed with you. Would you tell me?”
I snap out of my haze. “I would.”
“Good. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we should be able to talk about things.”
Things like how much I want to yank him close and feel his hot, hard body on top of me? Probably not that.
“I agree,” I say, trying to clear the lust from my voice. “And we have a lot to talk about.” I let go of the sign, grab my backpack, and pat it. “Like all the things we need to do.”
“And where we’ll donate proceeds from the dog cookies to,” he says.
I smile. “Definitely the dog cookies. I have a list of everything else, and you have a project schedule. We should start with the interior. Finish priming the drywall, then paint it. And order the garage door. Well, after we pick one. I think we should do all that before we move in tables and any furniture and, of course, display cases.”
I’m babbling, but it’s working, reversing that spate of lust.
When I pause for breath, Corbin adds, “And we need to plan a menu.”
“Right. Yes, duh.” Maybe I can try to be okay with letting the town laugh at me, but right now it feels deserved. How could I forget that mission-critical detail?
“It sounds like we agree on one important thing,” he says.
“The name?” I confirm.
“No. Mornings. Fuck mornings,” he says.
“That should be our tagline.”
He arches a brow. “Deal.”
I offer a hand to shake, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t imagine him yanking me against him and running those strong hands down my dress, fiddling with the undershorts, and figuring out expertly how to maneuver everything off.
But at least I’m satisfied that we both contributed to the store’s identity—I supplied the name, and he devised a cheeky tagline.
We go inside, sit down on the floor, and take a stab at the menu.
The You’re My Salty and My Sweet is a must, of course.
So is lemon shortbread, one of his favorites.
Orange habanero cookies, a trademark of mine, along with the pistachio ones too.
Seven-layer bars, with and without nuts, Corbin adds.
“We’ll call them Nutty Love and Un-Nutty Love,” I suggest.
“Everyone knows Nutty Love is the best kind of love,” he says.
“We’ll see.”
I stare at the ceiling for a minute, falling into the memory of baking a cake for my grandma’s seventieth birthday. Fresh strawberries and whipped cream, her favorite. “In the summer, we should make a strawberry cake.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, head tilted, a flicker in his eyes that seems to say he likes that image of us, being open in the summer, serving cake.
We finish the rough draft of the menu, then plot our next steps in getting this dream off the ground. I’d like to say I’m being all adult and businessy as we work. That I don’t think once about rubbing up against him, but that’d be a lie.