made his eyes fall to the pert, here-I-am! jut of the brunette’s nipples at the exact, fateful moment that her gaze darted up without warning. Yikes. Busted.
Oh, man. Eye contact. It was too much. Her gaze cut straight into his brain, like a hot knife through butter. He practically yelped.
Eye contact revealed fresh, fabulous details. Her eyes were hazel green, a hodgepodge of yellow and brown and green. She smiled, a hard, knock-you-back-on-your-ass smile. Not a comeon. A back-off smile.
She whipped the glasses off, laid them on the table. “Yes?”
He wanted to glance around himself for the man trap with the spikes. “Um, ah . . . what can I get for you?” What, was he stammering?
Her chin rose. “What have you got?”
Highly inappropriate answers whirled through his mind, like a swarm of crazed bees. He bit down hard, forced himself to act professional. “The menu’s reduced right now, since Zia Rosa’s gone. Tonight, we’re down to rice pudding, banana cream pie, coconut cream pie, cheesecake, and brownie sundaes. But all of them are great.”
Her stare was unblinking. A gunslinger in a high-noon duel. “And this Zia Rosa has been gone for how long now?”
The question taxed his brain severely, since all his blood had pooled elsewhere. “Ah. Um, I don’t know. Five wee”
“That’s how old the desserts are? Or did she fill the freezer?”
He recoiled in outrage. “Hell, no! The desserts are made fresh, all the time!”
Those big eyes got even bigger. “Ooh, cut you to the quick, did I?” she murmured. “Made fresh by who?”
His chest puffed out. “By me.”
Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “No way.”
He bristled. “Way! Why would I lie?”
She propped her chin on her hand and gazed up. “To impress me?” she suggested. “To distinguish yourself from the anonymous, sweating, teeming masses?”
Bruno considered that. “I didn’t know I was competing with any anonymous teeming masses, sweaty or otherwise,” he said. “And I’ve never had to work that hard to impress girls.”
“Hmm.” The eyelashes swept down as she pondered her next jab. “So you prefer to hang out with girls who are easy to please?”
Her attitude was starting to piss him off. “And why would it be a bad thing to be easily pleased?”
The eyes opened, wide and innocent. “Did I say it was bad?”
He closed his mouth. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m lost in the maze of this conversation, and I can’t find my way out, so I’m bailing. But if I actually were going to try to impress a girl, the first clever ploy that would come to my mind would not be lies about pastry making.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, that really begs the question. What clever ploy would be the first one to come to your mind? I’d love to hear it.”
He thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t step into holes in the ground that big,” he said. “Certainly not at four in the morning after a long shift. I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Her X-ray gaze bored into his head so intently he practically started to blush. “I just can’t see a guy like you making grandma food like rice pudding or banana cream pie. Brownie sundaes, maybe, but . . . no. Not unless you’re gay, of course. Are you gay?”
He let out a slow breath, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I’m an excellent pastry chef. My pie crust is better than my Zia Rosa’s. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ll make a chocolate cream pie before your very eyes. I’ll feed a piece of it to you by hand. And by the time I’m done, you’re not going to be asking me if I’m gay anymore.”
She cleared her throat, gaze darting down. “Is that so.”
“It is,” he said. “On your feet. Come on back to the kitchen. I mean it. I’m dead serious. It’s pie time. And I am so ready for you.”
She chewed on one side of her soft red lower lip, peeking up at him. Her fabulous if somewhat gummy black eyelashes were at
Oh, man. Eye contact. It was too much. Her gaze cut straight into his brain, like a hot knife through butter. He practically yelped.
Eye contact revealed fresh, fabulous details. Her eyes were hazel green, a hodgepodge of yellow and brown and green. She smiled, a hard, knock-you-back-on-your-ass smile. Not a comeon. A back-off smile.
She whipped the glasses off, laid them on the table. “Yes?”
He wanted to glance around himself for the man trap with the spikes. “Um, ah . . . what can I get for you?” What, was he stammering?
Her chin rose. “What have you got?”
Highly inappropriate answers whirled through his mind, like a swarm of crazed bees. He bit down hard, forced himself to act professional. “The menu’s reduced right now, since Zia Rosa’s gone. Tonight, we’re down to rice pudding, banana cream pie, coconut cream pie, cheesecake, and brownie sundaes. But all of them are great.”
Her stare was unblinking. A gunslinger in a high-noon duel. “And this Zia Rosa has been gone for how long now?”
The question taxed his brain severely, since all his blood had pooled elsewhere. “Ah. Um, I don’t know. Five wee”
“That’s how old the desserts are? Or did she fill the freezer?”
He recoiled in outrage. “Hell, no! The desserts are made fresh, all the time!”
Those big eyes got even bigger. “Ooh, cut you to the quick, did I?” she murmured. “Made fresh by who?”
His chest puffed out. “By me.”
Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “No way.”
He bristled. “Way! Why would I lie?”
She propped her chin on her hand and gazed up. “To impress me?” she suggested. “To distinguish yourself from the anonymous, sweating, teeming masses?”
Bruno considered that. “I didn’t know I was competing with any anonymous teeming masses, sweaty or otherwise,” he said. “And I’ve never had to work that hard to impress girls.”
“Hmm.” The eyelashes swept down as she pondered her next jab. “So you prefer to hang out with girls who are easy to please?”
Her attitude was starting to piss him off. “And why would it be a bad thing to be easily pleased?”
The eyes opened, wide and innocent. “Did I say it was bad?”
He closed his mouth. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m lost in the maze of this conversation, and I can’t find my way out, so I’m bailing. But if I actually were going to try to impress a girl, the first clever ploy that would come to my mind would not be lies about pastry making.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, that really begs the question. What clever ploy would be the first one to come to your mind? I’d love to hear it.”
He thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t step into holes in the ground that big,” he said. “Certainly not at four in the morning after a long shift. I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Her X-ray gaze bored into his head so intently he practically started to blush. “I just can’t see a guy like you making grandma food like rice pudding or banana cream pie. Brownie sundaes, maybe, but . . . no. Not unless you’re gay, of course. Are you gay?”
He let out a slow breath, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I’m an excellent pastry chef. My pie crust is better than my Zia Rosa’s. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ll make a chocolate cream pie before your very eyes. I’ll feed a piece of it to you by hand. And by the time I’m done, you’re not going to be asking me if I’m gay anymore.”
She cleared her throat, gaze darting down. “Is that so.”
“It is,” he said. “On your feet. Come on back to the kitchen. I mean it. I’m dead serious. It’s pie time. And I am so ready for you.”
She chewed on one side of her soft red lower lip, peeking up at him. Her fabulous if somewhat gummy black eyelashes were at
Similar Books
