“I am not,” I said through gritted teeth, “eating my feelings. “
“You’re not eating anything,” Rhys observed, motioning to the pristine cakes. “Which is a tragedy. “
Chloe stood up, her patience gone. “This is ridiculous. I’m leaving. ” She turned to Marcus. “Darling, are you coming?”
Marcus looked torn. He glanced at me, then at Rhys, then at the door. “I. . . I’ll be right behind you. I just want to make sure Ava and Rhys. . . get this handled. “
“Fine,” Chloe snapped. “You two,” she said, pointing a finger at me and Rhys, “handle it. Pick one that doesn’t look cheap. And send me the photos. I’ll approve it from my car. “
And just like that, they were gone. The scent of Chloe’s perfume lingered, but the suffocating tension from Marcus’s presence evaporated, only to be replaced by an entirely new, crackling static.
It was just me and Rhys. And three cakes.
Chef Antoine looked between us, his expression murderous. “So. Who tastes?”
Rhys grinned, a flash of white teeth. “We do, Chef. We do. “
He grabbed a fork, bypassed the vanilla entirely, and dug straight into the passionfruit mousse. His eyes closed in genuine, unadulterated pleasure. “Holy hell,” he murmured. “That’s. . . wow. “
I was still standing, clutching my binder. “Mr. Callaghan, our directive is to find the one that photographs best. The ‘dark chocolate-raspberry’ will likely provide the best visual contrast against the ‘Celestial Serenity’ backdrop. “
Rhys looked up, a dab of white chocolate on his lip. “You have a ‘Cake Flavor Matrix’ in that thing, don’t you?”
“I have a ‘Design Synergy’ chart,” I said, my spine rigid.
“Jesus, *planner girl*,” he scoffed, standing up. “Are you planning a wedding or a military invasion. It’s *cake*. Just. . . eat it. “
“My job is to liaise, not to indulge. “
“Your job,” he said, walking toward me, “is a cage. You know that, right?” He scooped up a forkful of the dark chocolate-raspberry, the one I’d pointed out. It was dark, rich, and dripping with a deep red champagne reduction. “You look like you’ve never gotten messy in your life. “
“I am a professional,” I said, taking an involuntary step back.
“Right. ” He held the fork out. “Eat. “
“I am not your. . . I’m not eating off your fork. “
“Afraid you’ll like it?” he goaded. “Afraid you’ll lose a little bit of that iron-clad control?”
“I am not afraid of cake. “
“Prove it. “
His eyes were challenging me, mocking me. The same way he’d mocked my binder, my schedule, my entire life. A hot, unfamiliar flash of anger—not the cold rage Marcus inspired, but something wild and impulsive—shot through me.
Before I could second-guess it, I stepped forward, took the fork from his hand, and ate the cake.
It was incredible. A blast of rich, dark chocolate, followed by the bright, sharp tang of raspberry. It was complex and messy and real. My eyes widened in surprise.
Rhys laughed, a low, throaty sound. “See. Not so bad. “
I was about to retort when he reached out with his thumb and swiped at the corner of my mouth. “You had a. . . smudge. “
His thumb grazed my bottom lip. The touch was electric, a jolt that went straight to my core, hotter and faster than any feeling Marcus had ever evoked. I jerked back, my breath catching.
His smirk returned, but it was different now. Softer. More dangerous.
“There’s another one,” he whispered.
He didn’t use his thumb this time. He dipped his finger into the buttercream on the vanilla cake and, before I could react, dabbed a tiny, perfect white dot on the tip of my nose.
I froze. Stunned. Mortified. I was Ava Morgan, CEO of Perfectly Planned, and I was standing in *Le Rêve Sucré* with frosting on my face.
“Gotcha,” he grinned.
And then I snapped.
It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t in any binder. It was a pure, unadulterated, chaotic impulse. I dipped my own fingers into the dark chocolate-raspberry, scooped up a thick, messy dollop of filling and—before he could even blink—wiped it straight across his smug, handsome chin.
The smirk vanished. His eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
We stood there for a full second, breathing hard. Me, with a dot of white on my nose. Him, with a smear of dark chocolate on his jaw. The air was so thick I could barely breathe, charged with something I had no tab for.
Rhys slowly licked a bit of the chocolate from the corner of his mouth. His eyes never left mine. “Well,” he said, his voice a low gravel. “Now we’re getting somewhere. “
The intensity in his gaze was terrifying. It was raw, assessing, and. . . interested. Genuinely interested.
I was horrified. At him. At myself. At the absolute, catastrophic loss of control.
“I have to go,” I stammered, grabbing my binder—my shield, my anchor.
I turned and fled the bakery, leaving Rhys Callaghan standing alone, covered in cake, laughing.