Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,24

was nervous because I might have to cuff her. Gave me all kinds of ideas.”

I have a sudden and visceral vision of punching Jerome right in the face. Clenching my teeth together, I ignore his statement and force out the question. “Did you check the permit?”

“Yeah, it all checked out. She’s clean. Not much I could do, except get her number.”

“You got her number? You were supposed to scare her, not hit on her.” Heat flushes up the back of my neck. Blood starts a low simmer in my veins.

“She’s gorgeous and she bakes. It’s a no-brainer.”

“You’re a no-brainer.” Great. Now I’ve turned into a middle-schooler.

Jerome laughs. “Does that mean she’s off-limits? Bro code?”

I take a deep breath and glance into the living room where Emma and Ava are watching Mr. Bean, the light from the TV playing over their faces. Emma laughs at something, accompanied by the laugh track emanating from the TV. “No. She’s not off limits. Call her all you want.” The words are forced out through clenched teeth.

Jerome, the dick, laughs harder. “Cool, man, maybe I will. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“You do that.”

“You coming to poker night next week?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

My old friends from college have a long-standing poker night, which I’ve never made. My schedule is too crammed. All my time is spent between work and taking care of the girls.

“Uh huh. I know what that means. You take care, man. And, hey, let me know if you change your mind and decide you like cupcakes after all, okay?”

I hang up on his chuckles and go back to the living room, resuming my spot between my sisters.

Emma pats my head gracelessly and leans against my side, a comforting warmth.

It bothers me more than it should that the annoying baker gave her number to my friend.

It continues to bother me through two more episodes of Mr. Bean and getting the girls ready for bedtime, and even leaks into the next morning.

I get to Decadence an hour late, and For Goodness Cakes is parked outside, mocking me with its colorful visage, happy and bright red and glaring. The generator hums, sending a corresponding drumming through my veins.

Once inside my office, I try to focus on work, but everything takes forever because I can’t get her out of my mind. The things she said, her dark blue eyes, her sincerity and that damn delicious cupcake.

By the time dinner service is about to begin, I’m ready to give up. I can’t let my emotions interfere with business but the need to see her is like an itchy scab that begs to be scratched—but you know if you do, you’ll just bleed.

And that’s why, for the first time in years, I break my routine. I should be here, making sure everything runs smoothly for the intimate seating tonight, but I can’t take it anymore.

Standing, I grab my coat from the rack behind my desk and stalk out.

Laughter and the clank of dishes fill the kitchen, chefs talking over the running sink as the staff cleans dishes and preps ingredients.

“You asshole!” Beatrice throws her apron at Joseph, but they both freeze when they see me passing through.

I don’t have to say anything; they immediately start moving back to their stations, leaving the apron discarded on the floor. I pick it up and a lump of something orange and gooey slides out.

“What’s this?” I ask.

Joseph laughs, the sound high pitched with nerves, “It’s just a prank. I’ll clean it up.” He scrambles in front of me and kneels on the floor with a rag, scrubbing vigorously.

My lips twist. Kitchen pranks. They happen everywhere and normally I might snap at them to make better use of paid time and not waste my eggs but this time…they’ve given me an idea.

“It’s fine.” Without further thought, I hand him the apron and grab a couple of eggs from the carton on the counter on my way out of the kitchen, sliding them carefully into the front pocket of my jacket, my mind already across the street.

“What’s with him?” Someone says behind me in a shocked voice, as I’m leaving, but I don’t pay them any mind. I’ve got a chef to chat with.

The truck window is closed, but light spills through the cracks. I shove my hands into my coat huff out a visible breath into the freezing night air. A lone snowflake drifts in an erratic pattern in front of me on a bitterly cold breeze, an omen