Chapter 2
TWO
TYLER
“Absolutely not.”
Rachel doesn’t even glance up from the bakery’s social media dashboard. “You’ve said that three times already.”
“I’ll say it a fourth if it gets through to you.”
“It won’t.”
I let out a long, aggravated breath and drag both hands down my face.
It’s barely ten in the morning. I’ve already been awake for seven hours.
I’ve mixed mountains of dough. I’ve pulled three hundred brioche donuts out of the fryer. I’ve fixed a broken mixer. I’ve burned my thumb on caramel.
And somehow, my biggest headache of the day is still my little sister.
“I’m serious, Rach.”
“So am I.”
She taps away on her laptop from her usual perch at the corner of the prep table, somehow looking perfectly put together while I’m covered in flour and running on caffeine.
“You’ve got a dinner reservation at seven.”
I clench my jaw. “I know.”
“It’s one date. With a woman who paid a lot of money for charity.”
“I know.”
“So stop acting like I’m sending you to prison.”
“It feels pretty damn similar.”
She laughs. “You are so dramatic.”
I point my scraper at her. “No. You are dramatic.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You called me ‘Donut Daddy’ on the internet.”
“I didn’t.” Her grin widens. “I quoted a customer.”
“And put it on a fucking T-shirt.”
“They sold out.”
I groan so loudly one of the prep cooks snickers behind me. “I hate that stupid nickname.”
“You hate attention.”
“I do.”
“And yet...” She spins her laptop around.
A video starts playing. It’s me yesterday morning. I’m kneading dough.
That’s it.
Just kneading dough. No funny commentary. No talking. No smiling.
The comments are already pouring in.
“The forearms...”
“Sir, respectfully I would let you fill all of my holes”
“Donut Daddy could bend me over that counter any day and teach me who’s boss.”
I shove the screen away. “I don’t understand people.”
“They think you’re sexy.”
“They need to get a life.”
Rachel laughs so hard she nearly drops her coffee.
“You signed me up without asking.”
Her smile fades. “I know.”
“You know I would’ve said no.”
“I know.”
“So why did you do it?”
She seals another bakery box before answering. “Because it wasn’t about you. It was for a cause near and dear to us both.”
That stops me.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I stare down at the tray of glazed brioche while she continues quietly.
“They’ve helped a lot of families.”
I nod once.
“My friend Melissa.”
“Our cousin.”
Another nod.
“The auction raised a lot of money.”
Silence stretches between us. Then she bumps my shoulder. “And besides...”
I already know I won’t like whatever comes next. “...you deserve a fun night out.”
“I have fun nights.”
“You work.”
“I like working.”
“You go home.”
“I like home.”
“You fall asleep watching TV.”
“I like… TV.”
She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t dated in...” She starts counting. “...actually I’m not sure I can count that high.”
“I’m busy.”
“No.” She points a finger at me. “You’re hiding. You’re hiding behind baking.”
I don’t answer.
Mostly because she’s annoyingly close to the truth.
By six-thirty, I’m regretting every life choice that’s led me here.
The restaurant the auction organizers picked is exactly the kind of place I’d never choose.
Everything is marble. Everything is gold. Everything is… tiny.
Tiny chairs. Tiny cocktails. Tiny portions.
All seven courses.
If your meal has more courses than a full schedule at college, something isn’t right.
The hostess smiles. “Your date is already here.”
Lucky me.
I straighten the collar of the one decent button-down shirt I own and follow her through the restaurant.
Then I see her. And every coherent thought leaves my body.
No fucking way.
It’s her.
The woman from last night. The one with the camera. The one I’d accused of being another influencer.
She’s standing when I reach the table, smoothing invisible wrinkles from a pretty emerald-green dress that somehow makes her eyes look even brighter.
Her hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder.
She’s… beautiful. Abso-fucking-ly beautiful.
She looks up. Recognition flashes across her face, then disappears just as quickly. Replaced by something much cooler.
Well. Hell. She obviously remembers me too. I wince inwardly. Of course, she knows who I am. She bid on a date with me.
I pull out her chair automatically. “Good evening.”
“Hi.” She sits.
No smile. No warmth. Just one clipped syllable.
I sit across from her. “So...”
“So.”
This is already going terribly. The waiter appears with champagne, saving me from having to try another subject. Not that so is much of a subject.
He launches into an explanation of the first course involving words like deconstructed and microgreens and foam.
I don’t hear a single one.
Because all I can think is: She’s even prettier than I remembered.
And— I was a complete jackass.
I hope she doesn’t hold that against me.
By the fourth course, it’s clear she has.
Oh, she’s answered every question politely. But also briefly.
“Do you work nearby?”
“Mostly.”
“How long have you lived in Vegas?”
“A while.”
“Do you like to travel?”
“Sometimes.”
I have had conversations with sourdough starters that were more animated.
Finally, I set my fork down. “Okay.”
She looks up. “Okay?”
“I’ve got to ask.”
Her expression stays carefully neutral.
I rub the back of my neck. “Did I...” God, this is awkward. “...did I do something?”
One eyebrow lifts. “You really don’t know?”
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. “I have a guess.”
She folds her napkin neatly onto her lap. “I’ve been looking forward to this date for weeks.”
Oof.
“I thought you were...” She gestures vaguely. “...well...”
I wince. “Less grumpy?”
“I was going to say charming.”
“…That’s worse.”
“And then I walked into your bakery and watched you lecture a complete stranger for taking one picture.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Oh, shit.
Because hearing it back...
Yeah. It sounds exactly as bad as it was.
And this breathtakingly gorgeous woman with smoldering eyes and an even fierier personality has every right to hate me.
I’m a fucking idiot.