I scratched the back of my neck. I was usually known as one of the infamous Manning brothers or the guy who owned the Lucky Spur. Or both. A lover, definitely, but not a book lover.

I shifted my gaze back to Astrid. She darted a glance my way. I couldn’t see a hint of makeup on her face, although there was something white on her flushed cheek.

“Hey there,” I said. I’d have tipped my hat, but it was on the table.

“Hi,” she offered, although her gaze was focused on my chin before she turned her attention to her aunt once again. “I can’t believe you went through with it.”

Miss Turnbuckle patted her hand. “Thatcher will do exactly what you want.”

My eyebrows went up, unsure of what exactly Astrid wanted. When Astrid glanced at me with a hint of panic, I was definitely intrigued.

“Astrid owns the Flour Power bakery on South Chester,” Miss Turnbuckle informed, which explained the smudge on Astrid’s cheek.

Astrid was what I’d call a curvy girl, one who might like to eat delicious treats besides just making them. I liked that. A lot. A guy—or at least me—wanted something to grab onto when he fucked, dips and swells to get to touch and kiss and explore.

Fuck, what a way to go.

I wasn’t sure if she was shy or if I scared her. Huck was definitely the scary Manning brother. I was the easygoing one, so for Astrid, I assumed shy.

“I’m sorry that I’ve never been to your shop before,” I told her, making small talk. “I believe Alice bought a strawberry shortcake earlier in the summer.”

There went the flush on her cheeks again. She looked at me, head on, for the first time. Her eyes, behind her glasses, were the greenest I’d ever seen. Like emeralds.

I felt like I was in a cartoon where a huge anvil fell on my head. My dick went instantly hard, and I was suddenly pleased she was shy because I wanted whatever she was hiding behind those glasses and modest outfit. I had the insane desire to poke any guy’s eyes out if he noticed her, too.

“Yes, that is a customer favorite during strawberry season,” she replied. “I think it’s the whipped cream since I put Kirsh in it.”

Her voice was soft and gentle but somehow, I only thought of dark and dirty things that could be done with whipped cream. I wanted to do them with her. She wasn’t coming on to me like women did at the Lucky Spur. Hell, she wasn’t even trying, only talking with enthusiasm as someone who enjoyed her work.

Still, I had to shift in my chair at the surprised hit of arousal wondering if I licked the sweet confection off her nipples if they would be the color—and taste—of strawberries.