Moments pass in silence as we fill our plates with Thai goodness. I take a seat at one end of the counter as she starts to sit on the far end.

“Nope. Get your fine ass over here.” Her eyes whip up to meet mine. “Don’t you dare sit all the way over there. I don’t bite.” I quirk my brows and challenge her.

“Lies,” she teases but takes the bait and moves her plate next to mine.

I smirk. “Well, not unless you want me to.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her breath hitches. Love that it does.

And just like that, the air between us changes.

It’s always been there—that thing neither of us wants to name. The push and pull, the tension that crackles every time we’re near each other. But now, sitting here, eating takeout, our knees touching, her lips slightly parted as she stares at the food like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

I feel it more than ever.

I don’t know what to do with it.

But for the first time, I’m not entirely sure I want to fight it anymore.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hendrix

“Stop ringing,” I call out to the phone as it rings for the third time in the past hour.

Then I laugh.

When have I ever thought I’d complain about being too busy? It’s insane. It’s overwhelming. It’s awesome.

I barely manage to balance the piping bag in one hand while reaching for the phone with the other.

“Cookie Cutter,” I answer breathlessly, adjusting the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“I’d like to place an order for divorce cookies,” the woman on the other end says cheerfully.

I pause, frowning. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Divorce cookies. The special from Gizmo’s contest?”

My stomach drops. “Um . . . I think—” You have the wrong bakery.

Oh. Shit.

He didn’t.

“No, no,” she insists. “It’s all over social media. Order breakup or divorce cookies—the newest idea from Cookie Cutter—and you’re automatically entered to win a meet-and-greet with Gizmo from BENT!”

I nearly drop the phone and it’s not because of her high-pitched squeal that follows.

There’s no way he did that.

None.

But her squeal and the sudden beep alerting me of another caller on my other line is saying there is. And he did.

“Oh, uh—” I scramble to open Instagram on my tablet, my heart hammering as I search for Jase’s page.

And then I find it.

A video of Jase grinning, oozing that Gizmo charm, as he explains about the “newest bakery sensation” while showcasing one of my perfectly decorated cookies.

“What in the actual hell?” I mutter.

The customer is still on the line. “So, can I place my order? Does that automatically enter me into the contest?”