“What is it?” she asked as he went quiet. Was he choking on her croissant? She’d never performed the Heimlich on anyone. What if she did it wrong? How would she explain his dead body when they weren’t even supposed to be talking?

He didn’t seem to be in distress, though. Now he was holding up the croissant and examining it closely. “You made this yourself?”

“Yes…” she said carefully. If he dared to insult her baking, she was tossing him out. Of course, he would probably just bounce on the sidewalk with that perfectly tight behind.

He devoured another bite and licked his fingers. Which was just the tiniest bit sensual—enough to bring those non-butterflies back. “It’s phenomenal,” he said.

There went her cheeks again. Pretty soon she’d need a fire extinguisher. “Oh. Thanks,” she said as nonchalantly as possible, considering her face was probably the color of the chair covers.

“It’s no secret that neither of our businesses is doing that great,” he said.

That caught her attention. Because today they’d just lost their contract with an organic grocery store chain that had been bought out. “I’ve been telling my mom we need to diversify our inventory,” she admitted, finally taking a seat. “But she keeps insisting we’re a boulangerie, and that means bread only.”

He nodded. “My dad won’t accept any menu changes, either. Let alone farm-to-table, organic, new takeout options, or…anything. But he’s going to have to agree to do something, or our restaurant isn’t going to make it.” He took the last bite and made a noise in his throat that could only be interpreted as him really liking it, which left her strangely pleased. “I was thinking we could contract with you to use your bread. And maybe other things, too. Do you make desserts?”

He’d just said her magic word.

And he’d hit a nerve. “My mother would never go against tradition. It would change the whole business.”

But maybe that’s what they needed.

Leo’s shoulders slumped. “That’s a no, then?”

“Not…necessarily…”

The gears in her head churned. She’d page through her many recipe books. Watch some online tutorials. Study the market. And figure out what she could bake that would go with their cuisine—something other than the basic tiramisu every other Italian restaurant in the country served.

It would have to be French to feel unique; that’s all there was to it. Because who would expect a French pastry in an Italian restaurant? Would they even care if they weren’t told it was French? All the customers would know was that they were getting something they’d never had there before. Let people assume what they wanted, if it kept her mother from struggling.

And if her mother were no longer struggling, then Tessa could seek out her own dreams without worry.

Her head whirled with the possibilities.