Chapter 3
THREE
ELIZABETH
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Not in the cocky, smirking way I’d expected from the man in all those videos.
No. He looks...horrified. Like I just revealed I got him putting week-old fish in his jelly donuts.
“I...” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. I deserved that.” His voice is quieter than it has been all night. “I’m sorry.”
I open my mouth to reply but quickly close it. Stunned. I wasn’t expecting that. Not the apology itself. The sincerity behind it. He doesn’t sound defensive. Or annoyed. Or like he’s apologizing because he thinks it’ll get him out of trouble.
He genuinely looks embarrassed.
“I’ve been thinking about it since I sat down,” he admits. “Actually...before I sat down.”
“You have?” He nods. “When I realized you were...” He lets out a slow breath. “You.”
A laugh almost escapes me. “Very specific.”
“The woman from the bakery.” He sighs.” “I knew I’d messed up last night.”
Something about the way he says it chips away at the wall I’d built around myself since last night.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“No,” I agree. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I know there’s no excuse…” His fingers drum once against the edge of the table before he folds his hands together, almost like he’s trying to keep them occupied. “I hate when people come into the bakery and never actually look at it.”
I tilt my head. “They’re looking at it.”
“Through their phones.” He sighs. “They’ll stand there for ten minutes taking pictures while there’s a line of people trying to order.
They’ll ask me to remake donuts because the glaze isn’t shiny enough for a reel.
They’ll move tables around. They’ll ask my staff to stop working because they don’t want anyone in the background. ”
My jaw falls open. “Seriously?”
“I wish I was kidding.”
“That sounds awful.
“And the comments.” He shakes his head. “People don’t even talk about the food anymore.”
I think back to the videos I’ve watched. The thousands of comments. The heart-eye emojis. The endless references to his forearms. My cheeks warm. Okay. Maybe I noticed those, too.
“They’re all...” He waves a hand vaguely. “’Donut Daddy this.’ ‘Marry me.’ ‘Take your shirt off while making sourdough.’”
I blink. “People say that?”
“It gets old.” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “I don’t mind if people love the bakery.”
His blue eyes meet mine. “I just wish they loved it because the food’s good.” Something soft settles in my chest.
“I spent years figuring out these recipes.” His voice has changed. It’s steadier. Warmer. Like talking about baking is easier than talking about himself. “I obsess over every ingredient. Every temperature. Every rise. Every filling.”
He gives a self-conscious laugh. “I’ve thrown out entire batches because they were two percent too dry.”
I smile. “I believe that.”
“I don’t care if anyone knows what I look like.” He gestures toward himself. “This?” He shrugs. “It’s just genetics.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Mostly because I disagree. The broad shoulders. The flour-dusted forearms. The ridiculously blue eyes. No, those definitely aren’t just genetics. And they’re almost too distracting me from this conversation.
This really important conversation that is giving me insight into a man most people have probably never even imagined. I know I hadn’t until just now.
“But the donuts?” he continues. “Those took years.”
Suddenly last night’s interaction looks different. Not better. He was still rude. But different. The internet-famous baker who seems so confident online... is actually shy.
Painfully shy.
Rachel must be the one creating the polished, charming image everyone falls in love with. The real Tyler is more comfortable talking about yeast than himself.
“You know...” I say carefully. “The only reason I decided to keep this date...”
One dark eyebrow lifts.
“...was because your donuts were so ridiculously good.”
His expression changes immediately. Almost imperceptibly. But I catch it. The tension leaves his shoulders. “You came because of the donuts?”
“I came because I needed answers.”
He blinks. “Answers?”
“Yep.” I nod. “I needed to know: What is your secret ingredient?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I knew there had to be something. They’re just donuts.”
“They are absolutely not ‘just donuts.’” I lean forward. “I’ve had gourmet donuts. I’ve had brioche donuts.I’ve had artisan donuts.”
“I appreciate your commitment to the research.”
“But yours...” I point a finger at him. “Yours are so good, it’s unfair.”
He laughs from deep in his belly. The sound catches me completely off guard. It’s deeper than I expected. Warm. Unexpectedly infectious.
“They’re fluffy without being airy.” I keep going. “The fillings aren’t overly sweet.”
“Mmm.”
“The glaze somehow tastes richer without being heavier.” His grin grows. “And don’t even get me started on the brown butter maple.”
“I won’t.”
“So?” I ask.
“So?”
“The secret.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Nope.”
“You can trust me.”
“I really can’t.”
I gasp dramatically. “I’m wounded.”
“I’ve come by my paranoia the honest way.”
My teasing humor fades. “What do you mean?”
He leans back in his chair. “I’ve had two people apply for jobs in the last year who weren’t actually looking for jobs. They were looking to get my recipes.”
I gasp. “So what did you do?”
“They both disappeared the second I handed them the paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“My NDA.”
I blink. “You have employees sign nondisclosure agreements?”
“And non-competes. I know it’s extreme. But it’s necessary. “For my bakery. It’s e my life’s work.” He smiles sheepishly. “Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head. “I think it’s kind of…poetic.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Poetic?”
“People protect the things they love.”
His gaze stays on mine a beat longer than necessary.
“I suppose they do.”
The waiter quietly replaces another course between us.
Neither of us looks at it right away.
Instead, Tyler clears his throat.
“So…”
“So?”
“If…” He pauses. “If we could pretend last night never happened…”
I smile.
“You want a do-over?”
“I’d like a second chance.”
He looks almost nervous asking.
Which, somehow, only makes him more attractive.
“I don’t think we need one.”
His eyebrows knit together.
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “I think we can just… start over.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Right now?”
“Right now. So, let’s get baking.”