Page 1 of Gobble Me Up

1

oliver

Monday morning, and the lobby of #1 Love Place could be a magazine spread for how the successful upper crust start the week—clean lines, polished marble, and soft lighting that hides how little sleep most of us got. There’s a low hum from the elevator bank, the scent of citrus polish from the night crew. My phone buzzes twice in my pocket; both texts are probably Helen reminding me about my first meeting, but I ignore them. I’ve already started visualizing my spiel, walking through my pitch in my head. Nothing is going to throw me off my game today.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the neon sign light up, Gobble Me Up. I clocked it my first day, made a mental note about the name—ridiculously playful for a prime location in the building. It’s all pink and cream and retro script, a little punch of color in the otherwise restrained lobby. Something about the way the G curls at the end, like it’s inviting you in for a secret. I tell myself to focus on work, that I'm just running late, but my feet drift over and the smell hits me full force. Fresh cinnamon rolls are cooling on racks. Sugar crystals sparkle atop golden pastries. Strong coffee brewing in gleaming machines. The aroma wraps around me, tugging at my stomach with invisible fingers.

I hesitate. Briefcase still in hand, my thumb runs along the handle. I could use the caffeine. I could also use a reason not to think about the half-dozen unread emails loaded up on my phone.

I walk through the heavy glass door and notice the soft lighting and gentle music playing softly in the background. There are glass cases full of pastries lining the counter, and the coffee machine hisses, sending fresh clouds of rich, almost chocolatey steam into the air, and over it all, I notice a voice, low and just a touch mischievous.

Turning, I get a two-by-four right between the eyes when I see the stunning brunette standing behind the counter. I come to a dead stop and take in the woman whose very presence feels like a full-body handbrake. She’s gorgeous. She’s confident, like she owns every inch of the space. Fuck. I’m in so much trouble here flashes through my mind as I stare at her. She’s got dark, wavy hair corralled into a messy bun with bits escaping near her temples. Her curves are somehow amplified by the fitted jeans and bright butter-yellow top hugging her frame. She spots me immediately, and laugh lines crinkle around her eyes as her mouth curves up in a genuine, lopsided smile. She’s young, early twenties I’d guess, but there’s a maturity to the way she stands with her shoulders back, head high, ready for whatever the morning throws at her.

Our eyes meet, and the world tilts for a split second. It’s instant, some wild sucker-punch of a spark that makes me forget to breathe. I realize, too late, that I’m just standing there staring at her with my mouth hanging open. I recover, straightening my tie and tugging at my cufflinks like I’m about to sit down with the board of directors. Fuck. I feel like a fish out of water.

She flashes her smile, full force. “Good morning! Welcome to Gobble Me Up. What can I get started for you?” Her voice is warm, slightly husky, unhurried even though there’s a tiny line forming behind me. Holy shit. I’d like to gobble her up.

“Morning,” I manage, but my voice comes out rough as hell, like I’ve been crawling through the desert for years. I try to look at the pastry display, the menu, literally anywhere except those big brown eyes, but I can’t. She’s like a tractor beam, and I’m the idiot spaceship who can’t break free.

I drop my gaze for half a second and spot her name tag. Cydney—I love all things sugar. Well, fuck me. That just about kills the last of my self-control. I want to tell her I’ll buy every damn croissant in the case if she’ll just keep smiling at me like that.

I grip my briefcase tighter. I’m thirty-eight years old and successful as hell, but suddenly I’m a fucking teenager with sweaty palms and a brain made of pudding.

She’s waiting. I set my briefcase on the floor, just for a second, and try to look like a man in complete control of his faculties. “What do you suggest?”

She leans her elbows on the counter, gaze never leaving mine. “Since you have BBCF, I’d guess you take your coffee strong and black.” She hit that nail right on the head.

“BBCF?” I blink several times, wondering when I stepped into the Twilight Zone.

She tilts her head, sizing me up. “That’s right. We see Boardroom Boring Coffee Face a lot.”

I choke on a laugh. I’m too fucking stunned to even try hiding it. “And I have this BBCF?”

The dimple in her cheek pops, and those brown eyes do something dangerous. “You’re practically a poster boy. I bet you steamroll everyone in meetings and drink your black coffee like you’re angry at it.”

I want her to just keep talking, period. Jesus. My cock is already half hard, and all I’m doing is ordering coffee.

I lean in, lowering my voice, trying not to look like a man about to beg. “If I wanted to surprise you, what should I order?”

She bites her lip, scanning me up and down, blatant as hell. “You look like you need something strong. Maybe a double espresso. Or, if you’re feeling brave, my signature vanilla bourbon cold brew. I make the syrup myself.” Her tongue darts out, quick, and I almost come in my pants.

I lean in, all pretense of hurrying gone. Fuck the impatient assholes waiting in line behind me. “Hit me with your best shot.”

Cydney leans over the glass, so close I catch the scent of her shampoo, some mix of vanilla and sugar that makes my mouth water. Her lips part, tongue flicking over the bottom one before she grins like she’s got my number and she’s loving every second of it.

“Coming right up, boss man.” She calls out my order to the woman standing behind the coffee machine, and I rake my eyes down her body, shameless, ignoring the way the guy two spots back in the line is probably rolling his eyes. I want to buy the damn bakery just so I can watch her all day. Instantly, I picture her on my granite kitchen island, covered in nothing but whipped cream and a smile.

Jesus.

Focus.

She turns back to me. “Would you really like to live dangerously and try a pastry to go with your coffee, or are you one of those strict no-carb warriors?”

I glance at the display. Every surface is loaded with sweets—danishes, scones, something chocolate the size of a small loaf. “What do you recommend?”

Cydney points to a tray with a massive cinnamon roll sitting squarely in the middle of it. “The monster sweet roll is my favorite.”

“I’ll take two,” I say, wondering when I lost my goddamn mind. She finishes ringing me up, then walks over to the pastry case to box up two cinnamon rolls. I watch her, mesmerized, which is ridiculous, but there’s something hypnotic about the way she works. She glances over her shoulder and catches me watching.