Mom Com by Adriana Mather

Author:Adriana Mather [Mather, Adriana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

CHAPTER 18

Baby Bun-dt Cake—

complicated designs that are nearly impossible to get out of the tin

All morning I’ve told myself on repeat that I’m going to ignore how much yesterday affected me. That Wilder and I are business partners. That’s all. We don’t need to ice-skate and he certainly doesn’t need to make grand gestures like the booth. This is business. Just business.

Yet as I carve a path through the bakery and open the kitchen door, my stomach jumps and twitches like a piece of microwave popcorn. Wilder is already there even though it’s only 3:58 a.m., and the moment I lay eyes on him, I feel that uncontrollable pull.

He looks up from his work, an inviting smile on his face. “Good morning,” he says, which I grant you is as bland a greeting as they get, but to me translates to I remember what you look like in the goddamn moonlit snow.

I immediately avert my gaze. “Good morning,” I parrot, swallowing the words and feeling even more absurd. It’d be really great if I could stop acting like a lunatic.

“I made you some coffee,” he says, and my eyes find his once more, searching for any lingering frustration. But I find none. He looks the way he does every morning, freshly showered and happy.

Wilder walks over to me as I hang my coat and scarf on the hook, carrying a steaming mug topped with whipped cream, and when I take it from him, his fingers accidentally graze mine. We both notice, and my already chaotic pulse jumps.

I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, still standing in front of me like a wall of pheromones with a hint of smokiness.

I take a sip, licking the excess foam off my mouth, and his eyes immediately move to my lips. A warning sounds in my head followed by naughty images of whipped cream.

I skirt around him, grabbing my apron, and hoping like hell he can’t tell what I’m thinking by looking at me. “Mocha?” I ask.

“Indeed.”

To my great relief, he doesn’t call me on my weirdness or try to talk about what happened last night. Instead, he returns to his pecan pie. But even though his back is to me, I can feel him over there.

So I dive into my work, hypervigilant and committed to concentrating on anything that isn’t him. And for the next couple of hours, he gives me space. Albert comes in and opens the front of the bakery, and still Wilder and I continue our quiet rhythms, which is great. Except it’s not, because I find myself looking at him more and more, his normalcy now driving me nuts.

“Wilder?” I say, when it feels like one more second of silence is going to make my head explode.

“Yes, Maddi,” he says, turning to face me, a hint of hopefulness in his tone.

“I was wondering if . . . you wanted to go over some of the accounting soon, just to, you know, see where we stand?” Just me bringing our relationship back to business, I think, mentally patting myself on the back.

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