“I guess I didn’t get out of the bakery fast enough.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re still in town because of me?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t blunt the answer. He didn’t even blink.
He was a very straightforward guy. She was used to the charming, flirtatious guys she’d grown up with.
“So why haven’t you asked me out?”
“You don’t seem like the casual dating type of girl.”
She thought about that. Was it casual dating when you literally fell into the guy’s arms and you locked eyes and you both became immediately smitten? But he was right. She nodded. “I’m not really.”
“Exactly.”
She should let it go. If he just wanted to casually date and she wasn’t the type for that, then she should let this go.
And she might have, if he hadn’t kissed her.
“Did you really have something else to do that made you leave before dessert?” she asked.
“Yes. I needed to walk you out and make sure you were okay.”
That clinched it. “Well, I need to go home and bake.”
He seemed confused.
“I bake on the side. For people who have last-minute work potlucks or kids’ school parties they don’t have time to bake for themselves. It’s purely to help people out. Stuff the bakery doesn’t do,” she added quickly. “You can’t tell Zoe.” She felt a flicker of guilt. That was familiar, however. She always felt a little guilty when she baked behind her best friend—and boss’s—back. Well, when she did it for money, anyway.
“My lips are sealed.”
His lips. Yeah, she really liked his lips.
“So I was thinking… if you just stopped by my house tonight and sampled a few things for me then that’s not really a date, right?”
Hey, she couldn’t be held responsible if he took “sampled a few things” as innuendo.
His eyes flickered first with understanding, then heat. “No, I wouldn’t call that a date.”
“Four Fifteen Elm Street,” she said. “The kitchen door will be unlocked.”
“I just have one more question,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Can you be late for work tomorrow morning?”
Heat flashed through her. His meaning was clear. Her reaction to it was as well.
“Yes,” she told him simply.
Hell, she could play up the I’m-not-really-feeling-well thing in the morning too if necessary.
And after that kiss, it was going to be necessary.
“Great. I’m definitely in the mood for something sweet.”
She had never had a one-night stand. She’d never slept with someone she hadn’t known for at least a year. Actually, if she thought about it, she probably hadn’t slept with anyone she hadn’t known for three years or more.
But Grant was Aiden and Dax’s friend and partner. Aiden Anderson, her best friend’s fiancé, had known and worked with and trusted this man for nine years.
“I’ll see you there,” she told him. Then she got into her car and headed for home, her heart pounding, her breathing uneven, and her panties much warmer than even the early summer night should account for.
She had nothing to worry about with inviting Grant over to her house for… whatever.
Except that she was ninety percent sure she didn’t have any marshmallow fluff at home.
That was really unfortunate.
3
This was really one of the worst ideas he’d had in a long time.
Grant acknowledged that even as he followed Jocelyn Asher home.
He didn’t have bad ideas very often. In fact, it was pretty typical that he was saving others from their bad ideas.
But even the taillights on Jocelyn’s bright blue Ford Fiesta were tempting him. He wanted to follow her home. He wanted to back her up against the wall of her—no doubt—bright, cute, sweet kitchen. And kiss the hell out of her.
He had an inkling of what the draw was here.
There was no question Jocelyn was gorgeous. She had long, wavy blond hair that fell nearly to the curve of her lower back. She had big blue eyes. She had a tiny body with sweet curves and a bright, quick smile. She had a tinkling laugh.
Yes, tinkling. Like bells or wind chimes or something. Something bright and cheery and impossible to hear without it making you feel happier.
She was clearly a bubbly, sweet, happy, sunny person.
Not his type at all.
Yet he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since she’d fallen—literally—into his arms the first time he’d set foot in the bakery where she worked.
It was very likely that fall—and the one that had happened the second time he’d ever seen her, also at Buttered Up—was messing with his subconscious.
He had a hero complex. He saved damsels in distress. Not in