She blushed—again—which showed him he’d gotten to her. And reminded her that he’d overheard her entire conversation with Sam. Even worse, he’d somehow managed to wipe all the snappy retorts out of her, which almost no one was capable of doing. For a second, she was thrown. “Fine,” she conceded. ”I’ll mention it, but don’t expect much.”

“My dad doesn’t know I’m doing this,” he said. “Maybe I’ll wait to hear how your mom responds first.”

She laughed. “You’re assuming that my mom is less set in her ways than your dad.”

“I really hope so.” He stood. “Thanks for the croissant.”

She watched him scan the bakery cases—taking in the baguettes, the ancient industrial espresso machine, the faded Impressionist-like panels on the walls her mom had painted years ago to look like Monet’s water lilies. “Things haven’t changed much around here,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed. This time her blush belied embarrassment at the shabby surroundings. “Bet you can’t wait to get back to the city.” She suddenly saw herself as he must see her, in the middle of this run-down old bakery, well on her way to becoming the town spinster—minus her cat, Cosette, whose tiny head in the window of her apartment greeted her without fail every afternoon as she pulled up. And with chocolate blobs on her face to boot.

“No, I—” He swung his gaze to hers, brows furrowed. “I meant it in a nice way, Tessa. There’s some comfort in the familiar.”

That threw her. That and the way he’d said her name, low and soft.

“Tessa?”

Her blood froze, because this Tessa did not originate from the body of a male with a rich, gravelly baritone. It was the distinct voice of her mother, who almost never showed up on her afternoon off, calling from the back room. Had she somehow known Leo was here?

“My mom,” she whispered, like she was sneaking around in high school, then scrambled out of her chair. “You’ve got to go.” She herded him toward the door. At least she tried to, but his arm was solid steel, and all that muscle mass did not move easily. “You should leave.”

He looked about as alarmed as a squirrel who’d just stuffed himself full of nuts, in no rush to scurry away.

“I’m glad to be back in Blossom Glen,” he said, as if he had an hour to stop and chat. “The croissants are better here.”

Better than in New York City? He had to be teasing.

Then he gave her a little wink and left.

A wink.

What was up with that? Was it friendly, condescending, or flirty? Or all three? Good thing she didn’t have time to think on it too long.

“Honey, is that you?” her mom called a moment later, entering the room.