Baiting Him (How to Catch an Alpha #2)(3)

I start to laugh, then stop when I notice he’s studying me with an odd expression on his face. “What?”

“What?” he repeats, never taking his eyes from mine.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I really fucking want to kiss you, but I’m thinking that would not go over very well, especially with every one of my employees watching us right now.”

I ignore his comment about wanting to kiss me, because I can’t deal with that, and focus on what he said about people watching us. I look around, feeling heat creep up my cheeks. There are at least a dozen or more people watching us. “Um . . . I think maybe you should go away,” I suggest.

“Did you just say I should go away?” he asks, sounding surprised.

I meet his gaze once more and nod. “Yeah, I mean, you’re the boss. You’re not exactly setting a good precedent with your employees by standing around and chatting.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” His lips twitch.

“I’m being serious.” I nod. “I mean, I talk to my customers at the bakery all the time, but that’s a little different. I mean, no one comes to my bakery, gets smashed, and ends up having a one-night stand. Or as far as I know, that hasn’t happened. Not that you can get smashed eating baked goods,” I mumble.

“You own a bakery?”

“Yeah, the Sweet Spot, on Main Street.”

“The Sweet Spot?” He gets the same look in his eyes that every man gets when they hear the name of my shop.

“I sell cakes and cookies and stuff, not sex toys. So you can get that look off your face.” I roll my eyes.

He grins, and I have to admit it’s way better than his regular smile. Still, I need to end this. I know guys like him: guys who look great and are pros at having a conversation. They know how to make a woman feel validated and important . . . up until the morning after, when you wake up next to them. After that, all their good qualities fly out the window, and you’re left wondering what happened to the guy you met the night before.

Been there, done that, and I’m so not going back for seconds or thirds.

“I need to go find my friends.” I hop off the barstool, then look up at him once more. “Thanks for the water, and it was really nice meeting you.”

Before he can reply, I leave him without a second glance.



I bob my head to the music playing in the background while rolling balls of snickerdoodle dough through cinnamon sugar, dropping each one on a cookie sheet. When I hear the chime for the front door, I stop what I’m doing to listen. Rachelle and Aubrey are both out front, but they might be too busy to greet the customer who just came in, since for some reason Wednesdays are one of the busiest days at the shop.

When I hear “Holy cow!” screeched loudly in unison, I quickly wash my hands and head out to see what’s going on. Standing at the counter, holding the largest, most beautiful bouquet I have ever seen, is Mikey, the older gentleman who runs orders for the florist down the block.

“Hey, Mikey.”

“Hey, girl.” He smiles. “I think you’ve got an admirer.”

“What?”

“These are for you, hon,” he says, and I feel both girls turn to look at me.

“What?” I repeat. I expected him to say the bouquet was for one of my employees. Both Rachelle and Aubrey are in high school. They are beautiful and on the cheerleading team . . . or squad—whatever you want to call it. And judging by the number of cute boys who come in here while they’re working, they’re both popular.

“These are for you,” he repeats as he sets the flowers on the counter. “Can you sign this?”

I scribble my name, then examine the flowers for a card as Mikey says “Later” and heads out.

“Who are they from?” Rachelle asks.

“It’s not your birthday,” Aubrey says, telling me something I know.

“I don’t know who they’re from, and no, it’s not my birthday.” I finally spot a small envelope between a bunch of peonies. I open it and slide the card out, reading the words three times, since I’m positive I’m seeing things.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I hope you’re having the same problem.

Call me,

Gaston

His number is neatly printed at the bottom.

“So who are they from?” Rachelle asks, jumping up and down excitedly at my side.

“Um . . .” I glance at her, then at the flowers. He remembered not only my name but also the name of my shop, and then he sent me flowers—something I don’t think any man has ever done for me before. An odd sense of excitement begins to fill my chest.

“Obviously, whoever they’re from has serious fricking class, because this bouquet must have cost, like, over two hundred dollars,” Aubrey observes.

I swallow and look back down at the card once again.

“So tell us who they’re from,” Rachelle repeats.

“A guy I met on Saturday.” I lean forward to smell a yellow rose. “I . . . we . . . I don’t know. We spoke, and he was very nice and funny. I just didn’t think I would ever hear from him again.”

“Wasn’t Saturday Leah’s bachelorette party?” Aubrey asks.