Together we walk to the elevator. “Never had what?” I ask. “An overbearing dad or a date?”
“Neither.” She stops in her tracks, turning in to face me. “This isn’t a date, right?”
“Oh, I know you better than that. I wouldn’t dare take you on a date. That’s way too much commitment for you, Montgomery.”
When our rideshare drops us in the North End of Boston, my hand immediately finds the small of Miller’s back, ushering her towards the bustling building. I’d rather hold her hand, lace our fingers together, but I have to take it slow with her, keep her from overthinking it all.
A line of patrons spills outside and wraps around the corner, and once we get to our spot in the back, Miller takes her time checking out the red brick buildings, trying to piece together where we are.
It’s clear this is Boston’s version of Little Italy, with their Italian flags and string lights draped over the cobblestone roads from building to building. There’s another bakery across the street that’s as busy as this one, but Rio told me they only had cannoli and that I should bring Miller here instead.
“Are we getting dessert?” she asks as we inch closer to the entrance. Her eyes widen comically when she looks through the windows, spotting countless glass cases filled with sweets. “Holy shit, this is exactly what my heaven looks like.”
“Your heaven, huh?”
“Yeah, we all have our own versions. Mine looks a lot like this but without all those bullshit glass cases in the way, but somehow, the desserts are still always fresh.” She finally breaks her staring contest with the bakery, turning her attention back to me. “What would yours look like?
“I can ask for anything I want?”
“Anything.”
“Well, I’m not sure what it would look like, but you’d be there and every time we were alone, your clothes would magically disappear right off your body. It’ll be my first request when I get into my heaven. In fact, it’ll be my favorite part.”
She startles with a laugh, and for a woman I find to be funny, my ego grows at a stupid rate every time I get to hear it.
The line starts to move again, and she goes ahead of me, closer and closer to getting inside. From behind I wrap a single arm around the front of her shoulders, the size of my hands and the veins that accompany it contradicting the soft floral lines on her tanned skin.
“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” I say softly, my mouth close to her ear.
She grasps my forearm, giving it a squeeze. “It’s okay. You’re apologizing with sugar so clearly, you’re forgiven.”
We step forward with the line, this time making it inside the building, the smell of cinnamon and chocolate hitting us the second we walk through the door. Miller’s lips curve in a childish smile and it’s so beautifully genuine, I can’t help but watch her instead of the endless glass cases of pastries, cookies, and cakes.
“Okay, what is this place?” she asks.
“Do you remember my friend Rio who you met the other night? He’s from Boston and told me about this spot. It’s mostly Italian desserts, but they have some French options and traditional American pastries as well. With my travel schedule, I know it’s hard for you to find time to get some work done, and these desserts aren’t as fancy as what you’d normally make, but I was thinking maybe you might get a little inspiration for those recipes. Who knows, maybe something will spark an idea.”
Miller stands still, not saying anything, which is strange. The girl is full of quick one-liners.
And my moment of confidence, thinking this was a good idea, has flown right out the window. “Or we don’t have to think about work at all and we could just get something that looks good to take back to the hotel.”
“No,” she quickly says, shaking her head. “No, this is . . . this is really thoughtful of you.” Her eyes flick to mine. “It sounds like the perfect idea. It also sounds a lot like a date.”
I scoff. “Clearly, you’ve never been on a date before if you think this is what they’re like. This is a work meeting, Mills. Stop getting ideas. Be professional.”
Her eyes crinkle, her smile returning as she faces the desserts again and we move up in the line, closer and closer to getting our order in. Standing in front of me, she leans back, absent-mindedly resting against my chest as she continues to window-shop.
And I’m smiling like a thirty-two-year-old child on Christmas morning because there’s been a good amount of easy touching for a business meeting.
“What do you want to get?” Her voice is almost a whisper, like it’s a secret only between us.
I fucking love seeing her like this. The smile and excitement she’s wearing now is how I envisioned her probably looking when she was a little girl and discovering her love for baking.
“Well,” I say, pulling out the folded paper from my back pocket. “I did a little research.”
“You did a little research?” she asks with a laugh. “Did you also print out your MapQuest directions to get here, old man?”
“Shut it.”
Her eyes are shining and her lips are pinched to keep herself from laughing.
“As I said, I did some research and made a list.”
“You made a list. On a piece of lined paper. With a pen.”
“You gonna just keep explaining everything I’m doing or . . .”
“There’s a notes app in your phone for a reason, Malakai.”
“Anyway.” I hold the paper in front of us, my arms caging her in. “Let’s get all of these and anything else you want to try.”
As Miller looks over my notes, comparing it to what’s in the glass cases, we continue to move up in the line. All the women working behind the counter are small, older, and Italian. They also don’t have time for any of these tourists’ shit, expecting orders to be given the second a guest makes it to them. If there’s a delay and patrons continue to peruse, a string of Italian words, presumably curses, echoes throughout the bakery.
I check over the glass cases, making sure I didn’t miss any must-have desserts. They all look amazing, and I’d take one of each if we’d have room at our table. But I’ve also been so completely spoiled by the baker living in my home that this outing is more for her than it is for me.
“Tiramisu was my mom’s favorite,” I say, pointing to the Italian cake when we pass it.
“The woman had good taste, I see.”
“Good genetics too, huh?”
She laughs. “Great genetics.”
“Next!” the woman with olive skin and gray roots hollers from the cash register.
Miller simply hands her my list of desserts. “These please.”
The woman’s lips tick up in an uncharacteristic way as her eyes scan the sheet. “I like you guys,” she states before taking off to box up our desserts.
“See,” I whisper, my hand snaking over Miller’s hip, fingers splaying over her lower belly. “My paper came in handy. There’s no way we would’ve gotten that kind of response if we handed her a fucking phone.”
She chuckles, her hand covering mine before calling out, “Can we add a tiramisu too please?”
“You got it!”
Miller simply shoots me a knowing smile over her shoulder all while doing a terrible job of making sure I don’t fall for her.
Miller sighs a happy little sigh. “That was the best hour of my life.”
Four giant pastry boxes sit on the table between us, still completely filled with only a few bites taken from each dessert. We had torrone, biscotti, éclair, and something called a lobster tail that was out of this world. I wish I could keep eating, but I’m stuffed.
“What was your favorite?” I ask.
“I don’t know if I could choose. What was yours?”
“I don’t know if I have a favorite dessert, but I did like watching you dissect them all like a mad scientist before each bite.”
“I was working, remember? This is a business meeting.”