Win a Date with a Baker (The Curvy Girls’ Bachelor Auction #24)

Chapter 1

ONE

ELIZABETH

The look on my sister’s face as she slides into the passenger seat of my car tells me more than her emergency text ever could.

“What. A. Freaking. Dick.”

I lean across the center console and pull her into the biggest hug I can manage with my oversized water bottle wedged between us.

“I’m guessing the zipline date didn’t end with fireworks and happily-ever-afters?”

Kathryn groans dramatically before letting her forehead thunk against my shoulder.

“He left me hanging.”

I frown. “Left you hanging?”

“Literally.”

I blink. “I might need a little more context.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare at the windshield. “He got a phone call. Said it was an emergency and took off. Leaving me strapped in at the top of the zipline.”

“Thats right. I was left hanging hundreds of feet above the Las Vegas Strip while two very nice employees tried not to make eye contact because they felt so bad for me.”

“Oh, Katie…”

“And there’s only one way down.”

I press my lips together.

She glares at me. “I know you’re trying not to laugh.”

“No, I’m not.” A snort escapes before I can stop it.

Kathryn points an accusing finger at me. “There. Proof!”

“Sorry!” I say through another laugh. “I promise. I’m trying really hard not to laugh.”

“Liar.”

“I love you,” I “say, once the fit of laughter passes. “And for what it’s worth, anyone who leaves their beautiful date literally hanging deserves a lifetime of wedgies.”

That earns me the tiniest smile.

“There she is,” I grin back. “I knew you wouldn’t let the bastard keep you down for long.”

She sighs. “It was mortifying.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“It felt like everyone was staring at me.”

“I’m sure they weren’t.”

“I’m even more sure they were.”

“Okay, they probably were.”

She swats my arm. “You’re not very good at comforting a person when they’re down.”

“I know.” I wince. “But I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of surprise?”

“The best kind.” I grin as I start the car. “We’re getting donuts.”

Her brows fall. “Donuts?”

“Not just any donuts.” I pull away from the curb, and take a shortcut that’ll get us away from the worst part of tourist traffic. “We’re getting those donuts.”

She gasps. “The viral bakery? The one you’ve been stalking for months?”

My lips. “I prefer ‘enthusiastically supporting a local business.’”

“You have a setting to notify you of new posts.”

“All the better for me to support them.”

She laughs again, this time it sounds more real. “You’ve watched every video that ridiculously hot baker has ever posted.”

“I happen to appreciate good craftsmanship when I see it.”

“You appreciate his forearms.”

Two things can be true. Of course, I can never give her the satisfaction of knowing it’s mostly what she said. This baker may have the best buns in town. But his forearms? Divine.

And, it also doesn’t need to be said, by my bringing her here tonight isn’t completely accidental. We both know I’ve been dying to visit in person. And I have a particularly good reason to come now.

Consider it recon for a little something I have scheduled later this week…

By the time we reach the bakery, Kathryn’s mood has lifted enough that she no longer seems to be on the brink of tears.

The storefront glows like a beacon against the Vegas night. Warm amber lights spill onto the sidewalk, and through the front windows I can already see rows of glossy brioche donuts, artisan loaves stacked on rustic wooden shelves, and customers lingering over late-night coffee.

The place looks exactly like it does online. Maybe even better.

“Wow,” Kathryn breathes.

I can’t help smiling. “Right?”

Maybe carbs can fix almost anything. Or at least make it hurt a hell of a lot less.

The second we step inside, I know I’m in trouble.

Warm vanilla wraps around me like a hug. Beneath it lingers browned butter, cinnamon, fresh bread, and something citrusy that reminds me of orange zest.

It’s heaven. Absolute, carb-filled heaven.

Kathryn sighs beside me.

I nod. “I know.”

The bakery somehow manages to feel cozy and upscale at the same time.

White subway tile climbs the walls behind glass display cases filled with pastries so stunning, they should be in a museum.

Tiny eucalyptus arrangements soften the industrial lighting, while oversized pendant lamps cast everything in a warm golden glow.

“It’s exactly like the videos,” I whisper.

Kathryn nudges my shoulder. “You’re such a fan girl.”

“I am not.”

She laughs under her breath.

My gaze wanders toward the open kitchen at the back of the bakery. I can see stainless steel prep tables, enormous mixers, racks filled with cooling bread, and employees hustling around in black aprons embroidered with the bakery logo.

But not him.

I stand on my tiptoes a little. Nothing.

“Looking for someone?” Kathryn asks innocently.

“No,” I say a little too quickly. “I just wondered if there were any daily specials.”

“Liar.” She leans closer. “You’re looking for the man you’ve watched knead dough approximately eight hundred times?”

“I have not watched them eight hundred times.”

“Seven hundred?”

I ignore her.

“I just thought...” I glance toward the kitchen again. “...if he owns the place, he’d probably be here.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“So?”

“So maybe Donut Daddy sleeps.”

A young woman behind the counter smiles at us. “First time in?”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“You’ve both been standing in front of the display case for almost two minutes.”

I laugh. “There are too many choices.”

“There is no such thing.” She gestures proudly toward the rows of donuts. “We have brown butter maple pecan, raspberry cheesecake, pistachio honey, cookies and cream brioche, crème br?lée, lemon lavender—”

“Oh my gosh,” Kathryn groans dramatically. “I suddenly understand your obsession.”

“I told you.” I pull out my phone. “I have to send this to Mom.”

“And definitely not your Instagram story?” Kathryn asks.

“Why not both?”

The lighting is too pretty not to photograph.

The rows of glossy pastries catch the pendant lights perfectly, and the little gold name cards beneath each flavor are almost too cute to exist.

I step back, framing the display in my camera. I’ll just take one quick picture.

Maybe two.

“You people ever actually taste your food?” I nearly jump at the deep voice behind me.

I lower my phone and turn.

A broad-shouldered man in a faded black baseball cap stands a few feet away with his arms crossed over a flour-dusted charcoal T-shirt.

He’s...big. Not bodybuilder big. But he has the kind of shoulders built by lifting fifty-pound bags of flour instead of barbells.

His forearms—

Okay.

His forearms are. magnificent. Strong. Inked. Lightly dusted with flour that somehow only makes them more distracting.

His jaw is covered in a few days’ worth of dark stubble, and beneath the brim of his cap, a pair of startling blue eyes fix on me with unmistakable irritation.

“You know,” he continues, “there’s a whole bakery in front of you. You don’t have to experience it through a six-inch screen.”

I blink.

“I’m sorry?”

“Every night it’s the same thing.”

He gestures vaguely toward my phone.

“People come in, take forty pictures, buy one donut, and spend the next hour pretending they discovered the place.”

My cheeks warm. “I wasn’t pretending anything. I was taking one picture.”

“For the internet.”

“My mom, actually.”

He gives me a look that clearly says sure.

Kathryn shifts beside me. “It really was for—”

“I don’t care,” he says with a shrug. “Just don’t block the case for people who came here to eat.”

Ouch.

The words themselves aren’t especially harsh. His tone is.

I open my mouth, then close it again. Because honestly? He’s kind of being a jerk. An incredibly handsome jerk.

Which is deeply inconvenient. Because…

Kathryn leans toward me just enough to whisper, “Please tell me that’s not...”

I nod. “It is.”

The woman behind the counter sighs dramatically. “Tyler.”

The man closes his eyes for half a second. “What?”

“Be nice.”

“I am nice.”

She snorts.

I stare at the baseball cap. Then the flour. Then those ridiculously well-defined forearms.

Great. Just, great.

This grumpy, argumentative, antisocial man is the internet-famous baker I’ve been following for months. And as of last week, I paid way too much money at a charity auction for a date with him.

Apparently, my sister isn’t the only one who is bad at picking out men.

It looks like I’ve won a date with a bonafide jerk.