her profession in that moment as she never had before. “Any more than you can make a perfect sunset last, or an amazing live concert, or a belly laugh. If you put that cake in the fridge until it rots, you’ll have missed the joy of eating it. Please.” She leaned over and touched his leg with her purple-mittened hand. “I made it for you.”
He blinked at her slowly, then with a nod that contained a hint of sadness, he withdrew that perfect cupcake. And, after staring at it again from all angles, as though to commit the image to memory, he bit into Australia.
He didn’t seem to mind that he got blue gel all around his mouth, didn’t stop for a second to wipe up. Instead, he gave himself over to the pleasure of that first bite. “Mmm, mmm, that is so good,” he finally said, licking his lips. “Usually commercial cakes are so disappointing, as though all the work went into the decorating for show, and then inside it’s a boring cake. But this.” He seemed unable to find words. Closed his eyes briefly. Then smiled at her. “I think I get it. You made an ordinary cake and filled it with a surprise flavor.”
She nodded, pleased with his perception, and so he went on.
“It’s like a thriller novel. Everything seems normal on the surface, but there are secrets to be uncovered. And the protagonist may seem like one thing on the outside but be full of surprises.”
“Exactly. It’s what I love about thrillers.”
“And new relationships?”
He was gazing at her with those warm gray eyes that were anything but ordinary. Her stomach jumped and then settled. “Exactly.”
He offered her the cake and she bit into the other side. Even she had to admit it was one of her tastiest, most inspired creations.
“This is a very different first date for me,” he said, sipping from coffee that steamed in the cold air.
“I’m glad. How do they usually go?”
“I have a list of questions I can ask to keep the conversation flowing.”
“Such as?”
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“That’s a good one to start with.”
“I think so. Well? How about it? Tell me about yourself.”
She sipped her coffee, thinking. What was there to tell, really, that a down-to-earth man like Ron would find interesting? When she reviewed her history, even with careful editing, she knew she’d sound like a flake. So she cut to the chase. “I’m a flake.”
A quiet rumble that could have been a chuckle shook him. “Really? Have a bit of Antarctica.”
He passed her the cake and she bit into it.
“I am, you know,” she said around the flavor. “I don’t like schedules or do normal things. I practice a lot of yoga—and I started a long time before it became popular, by the way. I’ve spent much of my life drifting.”
She tipped back her head and contemplated the gray sky above. “All of it, really.”
“Perhaps I could have some specifics?”
Suddenly, she laughed. “You see what I mean? I can’t even have a normal conversation with details. I’m even a flake in conversation.”
“I like that about you.”
“You do?” If he’d told her he liked that her hair was four colors because she could never decide on one she couldn’t have been more shocked.
“For the same reason I like your hair,” he said, knocking her mouth wide open. As though he could hear her thoughts. “It’s free and unfettered by rules and order. Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I like order, I live by rules. Accountants have to, you know. Numbers don’t have a great deal of room for whimsy. I saw you and something lightened in me. I think I have a tendency to be too serious.”
She thought of the way he’d described his dating strategy to her, playing some kind of mathematical numbers game, and she had to agree.
“If you want whimsy, you’ve come to the right girl.” She blew out a breath. Usually she was uncomfortable talking about herself, but she figured if she liked the guy enough to spend half a day making him a cupcake, she liked him enough to tell him about her life. So she tried.
“The only truly constant thing in my life has been cakes. I knew that’s what I wanted to do when I was a teenager. But apart from that, I’ve moved around a lot, spent some time in India, never really been able to settle. My parents were hippies and somehow I never got out of the habit, I guess. I’m thirty-two years old and my longest ever relationship was two years. Everything I own fits into the world’s tiniest apartment. Which I rent.”
There was nothing left of the cupcake now but the little fondant man in the gray suit. Ron glanced at her as though he were about to ask if he could keep the little icing guy, but he surprised her, he leaned forward, holding the replica of himself between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes held hers. “I want you to take the first bite,” he said softly.
Maybe it wasn’t the sexiest remark a man had ever made to a woman, but it was the most erotic statement anyone had ever said to her. Perhaps because of the way he was looking at her. This buttoned-up accountant had sexual intent blazing in his eyes and she knew he was inviting her to do more than chomp a chunk of icing.
She leaned forward slowly. Opened her mouth. Like a perfect sunset, a great concert or a belly laugh, she knew this moment would be gone all too soon, and all she’d have would be the memory, so she tried to imprint every sensation. The feel of the cold breeze on her nose, the sound of traffic in the city, the cry of some hardy seabird in the distance, and the warmth of the man beside her. The expression of tender lust on his face, the way his lips curved slightly, a tiny smudge of blue lodged adorably on his chin.
He slipped her version of himself between her lips and she bit down, taking half of him into her, enjoying the burst of sweetness and the punch of almond. Because, as with the cake, she hadn’t wanted the icing to taste predictable.
She licked her lips. He continued to gaze at her as he pushed the other half of his fondant self into his mouth and chewed. His eyes widened slightly as the unexpected flavor hit him, and they went squinty at the sides with humor.
Then he leaned over and, taking her chin in his hand, scanning her face for a long moment, he kissed her.
She was flighty and dreamy and whimsical and—deep to her core—romantic. She’d dreamed of Princes Valiant and Charming and every variation in between. The kind of men who rode steeds and crashed down doors and swept innocent, heart-pure maidens off their feet.
Ron wasn’t anything like that. She couldn’t imagine him on a steed. He seemed like the kind of guy who might be afraid of horses. She couldn’t imagine him sweeping her off her feet, but he’d hold a door open for her, he’d be able to figure out even her income tax, which was a lot more practical in the real world.
It was only his kiss that made her feel like a fairy tale princess.
This was sweeping her off her feet, the way he took possession of her mouth, teased her with his tongue, so she tasted again the sweetness of sugar and almond, the
