“Because I have sole custody? Or because of my history?”
Brooklyn nodded, but rather than press either point, she moved to less volatile ground. “And the fact that you’re a chocolatier.”
That seemed to settle well enough. “Then the timing is perfect for you to see me in my element, what with Saturday being—”
“Valentine’s Day. I know,” she said, realizing the holiday probably brought him a tidy little profit. “And with your business consisting primarily of online orders, which I know from your parents, not your daughter”—though also from gossip and from googling you—“you’re no doubt up to your eyeballs packing boxes for last-minute shipping.”
“I’m actually up to my eyeballs making the product to go in the boxes.” He shoved his fists in his jeans’ pockets, his shoulders hunched as if he were exhausted already. “I’ve had a couple of middle school kids helping me out after school with the surge. Addy’s pediatrician’s son, Grady. One of his friends, Jo.”
“I thought there were laws against child labor.” She teased him, a change of mood while she did her best to ignore the gap beneath the buttons of his shirt. The way he was standing gave her a glimpse of the bare skin above his belt. And it was so, so hard not to stare at his very tight abs, the dusting of hair there, and what looked like tattooed red, green, and gold scales . . .
He shrugged, the motion widening the gap. A lizard? A dragon? A snake? And what were the words clinging to the spikes along its back? She would need to get closer to see, and, well, that wasn’t going to happen, was it?
“I figure it’s no worse than hiring them to mow my lawn,” he said. “If I had a lawn. Addy and I live in a loft in the textile district, though with the way she likes to talk, you probably know that.”
Actually, she didn’t, but the old cotton warehouses near the Guadalupe River, now trendy living spaces, were the sort of place she could picture him: the freight elevators, the original brick, the crank casement windows. The warehouses were funky and fun. Not staid and suburban. Not dull and boring. Probably not a cat to be found.
“Anyway, I’ve got a full-time employee working the front counter, and a temp helping her out this week. The rest is all me.”
“You do everything by hand?”
“The artisan pieces?” He nodded. “It’s a quality-control thing. And my reputation.”
“A true craftsman.”
He twisted his hips just so, and she heard something pop. “With the bad back to show for it.”
Ouch. “That must take a lot of hours.”
“Six days a week. Ten-hour days. Thousands of chocolates weekly.”
“Impressive,” she said, thinking about the physical toll such exacting work must take. And that on top of his being a single dad. Maybe he didn’t have a woman in his life because he didn’t have time.
“So? You want to take a look around before I get back to work? Set your mind at ease and all?” That grin, again. The dimple. The scruff. The glorious temptation. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I sit Addy on a stool at the kitchen counter in the mornings and spread her toast with cocoa butter.”
“I’ve actually seen your shop. Several times.” She’d just never seen him while there.
“The open-to-the-public part, sure. Not where the magic happens.”
The way he said the words . . . She swallowed, cleared her throat to ask, “When—” but was interrupted.
“Now? Before I dig in for the next fifty-six hours?” He gestured toward the storybook still sitting on the chair. “Gotta make up the time lost to Opie and his quest for chocolate.”
So he’d come to school to read to her class when he needed to be working? And now he wanted to spend more of his valuable time on her? “We don’t have to do this today. Not when you’re so busy. Really. I’m not worried about Adrianne. Another time will be fine. We can wait—”
A sharp shake of his head, and, “Let’s not.”
She heard her breath catch, heard herself saying “Okay” before she could think through his invitation. Or his insistence that they do this now. Or about anything other than the tone of his voice, the push in his words. The sense of urgency coiling inside of her. “Let me get my keys—”
“Leave your car. We’ll take my bike.”
She glanced down at her gray wool pants, her deep cherry sweater, her black ballet flats. Then she glanced at his jeans, his jacket, his