Dean laughs and grabs me around the waist. His firm hands send a spasm of electricity through my body as he turns me back to face him. “Norah, I’m joking. Jesus…you need to relax a little. Of course I’ll help you. We’re friends, right?”
His eyes fixate on me for a moment, and I’m literally standing in the alley in his arms. I jerk out of his embrace before I get embarrassingly sweaty. “Just friends, yes. But I’m looking at this as a business transaction, so it’s not a friendly favor. I want to find an appropriate way to pay you back sometime. Extra emphasis on appropriate.”
He nods. “Got it, boss.”
“And I have one more condition.”
Dean inhales knowingly. “It wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have conditions.”
I quirk a brow at him. “Call me sugar tits ever again, and I get to flatten your nuts with a rolling pin.”
Dean flashes me a grin. “Fair enough.”
I reach out for a handshake. “Clearly, my mother has made me insane for going to these extremes, but I’ll do whatever it takes to get her to quit trying to set me up.”
Dean takes my hand in his. “You’re kind of hot when you’re angry, Norah.”
I roll my eyes and pull my hand away before my body overheats again. “I’m already regretting this.”
The next day, I’m on my way to Norah’s apartment for a homecooked dinner and discussion of the “ground rules” for our business transaction. Or at least, that’s what her bossy text message said last night. She clearly had an anxiety flare-up after I left yesterday because she sent several messages freaking out about everything that could go wrong at her parents’ party and came up with the genius idea of a list of rules. Knowing Norah, she’ll probably have a binder and a notary on hand for our signatures.
I can’t wait.
I’ve never seen Norah’s apartment, so I’m intrigued to see her outside of the bakery. And out of that stupid smock. The night she came to my thirtieth birthday party was one of the only times I’ve seen her dressed up. I still can’t get the images of her in that red tank top out of my mind. It was simple but effective.
Being Norah’s fake date may have been my best idea yet.
And the craziest part is, it wasn’t my idea. I didn’t see that coming from her. Especially since she’s such an introvert. Boulder is a small town, and I never see her out and about. And considering Norah lives above her bakery on downtown Pearl Street that’s chock-full of bars and restaurants, it’s safe to assume Norah is a homebody.
The sun is beginning to set as I park in front of the bakery. Norah’s place is prime real estate with lots of foot traffic from tourists and locals. Plus, her building is historical, which adds tons of character to her bakery. The second location will be very similar once the contractors have completed the restoration process. What’s better is, there are few specialized bakeries like it in Denver, so the residents won’t know what hit them. Norah’s croinuts are unbelievable and addictive. Although I’m still not one hundred percent sure my addiction isn’t to Norah more than to her croinuts.
I walk around the building and find the green side door Norah detailed in her text. I press the button labeled Donahue and wait patiently.
“Yes?” Norah’s voice echoes over the intercom.
“Hi, this is Dean Moser, your well-hung hooker for the night.”
A silent pause on the other end has me briefly regretting my joke, but she must forgive me because I hear the lock open without a word. As soon as I begin climbing the tall staircase, the delicious scent of meat hits my nose and makes my stomach growl.
The apartment door at the top of the stairs opens, and Norah emerges, looking frazzled. “I’m just finishing the béarnaise sauce, come on in.”
She turns, and her bare feet pad down the long hallway inside her apartment. I follow, taking in her frayed jeans and white tee that’s knotted in the back, revealing a sliver of pale skin just above her checkered apron. Her casual look is completely at odds with my plaid slacks, T-shirt, and sky-blue suit coat I wore to what she described as a business meeting.
Regardless, my stomach likes what it smells as I turn the corner into her bright kitchen with whitewashed walls, white cabinets, and a large cream marble slab over an island containing the sink.
“I hope you eat red meat,” she says as she stirs something over the commercial-grade stove.
“I am a carnivore.” I slip off my jacket while checking out Norah’s ass in those tight jeans.
“Extra-large from what I hear,” she says, glancing over her shoulder and catching me before I raise my gaze to hers.
I can’t help it. Norah has curves that must be appreciated. I’m an ass man, and Norah’s might be the best I’ve seen. It’s a travesty she hides her curves under those aprons.
Shaking the image of her in nothing but an apron out of my head, I mosey into her attached living room that has a bank of windows overlooking Pearl Street. I glance down to see the streetlights have come on and people appear to be heading out for the night. “How long have you lived here?”
A sizzle escapes the stove as Norah replies, “Since I bought the bakery so…eight years, I guess?”
I nod, and my brow furrows. “You were how old when you opened Rise and Shine?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Are you trying to guess my age, Moser?”
“No, I’m trying to figure out how a young twentysomething could afford a bakery and an apartment on Pearl Street. This is a hot location.”
She nods and turns back to the stove. “I was twenty-two, which makes me thirty now if you must know. And I had my dad co-sign a business loan for me.” She turns to look at me. “I assume you didn’t have to take out a loan to invest in Rise and Shine-Denver?”
I ignore that question and turn the corner to peer into a set of frosted sliding doors. They lead into a bedroom with a perfectly made white bed covered in white throw pillows. A large black and white photo of the Eiffel Tower covers the far wall.
“Have you been to Paris before?” I ask as I head back into the kitchen and take a seat at the marble island.
“Not yet.” There’s a wistful note to her voice as she pours a creamy sauce into a glass gravy boat. “It’s at the top of my list, though.”
“Why Paris? Why not Thailand or Brazil or South Africa?”
She pins me with a dubious look. “Do you really have to ask a baker that question? Paris is known for its pastries and desserts. It’s like a mecca for a baker. Plus, my friend Chelle from culinary school lives there, and she’s always sending me photos of Parisian bakeries, and it’s just…so inspiring. A lot more inspiring than good ole Boulder, Colorado. I would love to move there someday.”
I nod and smile as she pushes a bottle of red wine and two glasses toward me, silently bidding me to open it and pour. I do as I’m told as she plates what looks like a filet steak with broccolini and some type of fancy potato. “Looks like you’re a decent cook too.”
Her blue eyes swerve up to meet mine. “You haven’t tasted it yet. It could taste like poison.”
I huff out an incredulous laugh. “My nose rarely leads me astray.”