The kitchen is big, bigger than I expected from the small café space out front. Everything is stainless steel, from the countertops to the industrial ovens and the racks upon racks of cooling trays.

I take a deep breath, and holy hotcakes, if I thought the shop smelled good, being in here is like taking that scent and bathing in it. I can practically feel the delicious warmth sinking into my pores.

"Just a sec." Elio opens the door to what looks like a small cool room. Coming out two seconds later, he’s holding a white plate.

On it lies one of the most enticing treats I've ever seen.

A perfect, round pastry shell with scalloped edging houses a glossy golden curd. It’s so shiny I can see my silhouette in it. I lean closer, inhaling the scent of lemon, of white chocolate, and of something else almost savory. It truly looks amazing. Delicious.

"This is just a sample. Of course, if it makes it to the menu, I was thinking of doing something special on top. You know, a drizzle of chocolate, a tuile of some sort . . ." Elio places the plate down and opens a drawer, pulling out a knife and the world's smallest fork.

"Tuiles are very on trend right now," I contribute, because damn it, if this is what the role of cake tester looks like in Elio's life, I very much want to ace this interview and get the job.

He holds the knife out to me. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"I couldn't." It’s too perfect. Too exquisite.

"Suit yourself." He shows no mercy. The knife carves easily through the pastry, and it splits in two. Dead. Murdered. Ruined.

I pout. “You broke it.”

Elio laughs. Picking up the fork, he scoops a piece from the plate, then holds it out to me.

I swallow, wet my lips. Is he . . . is he going to put it in my mouth?

The thought is so intimate, so somehow naughty, despite being so very pedestrian. His hands near my face. One finger brushing away a stray crumb. My tongue darting out to touch it.

"Uh, I'll just . . ." Elio places the fork down on the edge of the plate, then swivels it around so the handle extends in my direction.

Of course he isn't going to feed me.

Only a man who was attracted to a woman would do that, and Elio is not attracted to me. I pull the sides of my cardigan protectively around my curves, as if I can hide them from view.

I take the fork, and all my naughty thoughts are forgotten because crap, does this taste good. Like “please, sir, can I have some more” good.

"Oh . . ." I groan, closing my eyes. Wow.

I blink them open, and Elio's staring at me with a bugged-out expression. Most likely because I just impersonated a porn star while sampling a piece of cake. What is wrong with me?

Straightening, I try to pull myself together, but I can't help popping the fork back in my mouth to get every last bit. "Elio, that is delicious. The lemon and the white chocolate go so perfectly together! And the herb—is that . . .?” I wave the fork while I think. It has just a hint of an earthy flavor. God, what is it? It’s not normally in dessert, that much I know.

"Thyme?" he prompts, and I grin.

"Yes! Thyme. Of course." I shake my head. "I think you’re onto a winner. Truly, I do. If everyone isn’t lining up around the block to taste it, they’re just plain crazy because I would marry the hell out of this tart."

"Really?" The sweetest smile graces his lips.

"Really. One hundred percent." I take the fork and gesture to the tart again. "Mind if I . . .?"

"By all means." He nods to the plate, and I scoop up some more, shoveling it in my face in case he plans to take it away. "So now you know all about my risqué little tart, it’s time to spill some of your own work secrets. What made you start your own blog? You seem to work an awful lot. It must be hard."

“It’s not that hard.” I brush his reply away like the crumbs from the side of my lips, then stop. Because I’ve worked damn hard to get this blog up and running, and I shouldn’t sweep that minor detail under the rug just because a man with bedroom eyes and skillful hands has paid me a compliment. “I mean, it’s not that easy though, either. I started it three years ago, and I’ve had to spend a lot of time on it, give a lot of myself to it. While other people spend their Saturday nights with friends, or out on dates, for me, it’s time to dedicate to researching other blogs and creating plans for the week ahead.”

“You don’t date?”

“No.” Is it hot in here? “I don’t.”

He smiles. Wait—is he flirting with me?

My blog post from this morning flashes in my mind. Live in the moment.

Maybe it’s time to take my own advice.

Maybe it’s time to put a bit more of myself out there.

“I mean, I would like to date. I have dated before. Obviously,” I say, because ask me out already.

He glances at my lips, then his gaze rolls back to my eyes. He steps closer. Tension thrums all around us, as taut as a bowstring. My heart hammers rapid-fire in my chest, as if trying to get out and launch itself at Elio’s feet.

I run my tongue over my lower lip again. Is he . . . is he going to kiss me?

Is Elio, sex god, and baker of the most delicious lemon tart in the universe, going to kiss me in his kitchen?

He raises his hand. My thoughts race. He’s going to thread it through my hair, jerk me closer. He’s going to kiss me.

Please, be going to kiss me.

The bell above the shop door rings.

“Elio? I brought a little visitor to see you,” a familiar voice calls. I recognize it as belonging to Elio’s sister, who seems to be at Bittersweet almost as often as I am. The only difference is she gets paid to be here.

I don’t break our gaze. Maybe Bianca will go away. Maybe we can get this almost-kiss back. Kiss me, you infuriating man.

“I . . .” He presses his lips together for a second, and dear God, I hope he’s warming them up.

A tiny human dashes into the kitchen, wrapping herself around Elio’s leg. Brown curls bounce as she looks up at Elio, stars in her eyes. So, pretty much the same way that I look at him.

“It’s me! I’m the wittle visitor.” The child giggles, and even though she’s ruined my near perfect morning with my near perfect kiss, I can’t be mad at her because she is adorable.

“You? You’re the visitor?” Elio scoops her up into her arms, spinning her round. She shrieks, clutching at his neck. Elio twirls the little girl once more for good measure, then places her back on the ground. Seeing him and his niece side by side, there’s a definite family resemblance, and the way he just picked her up into his arms? Swoon. It’s all I can do not to lick him. “Coco, did you say hi to Romy?”

“Who’s Womy?”

“That would be me.” I give a little wave. “Hi, Coco. It’s nice to meet you.”

Coco gives me a scrutinizing once over, but before she can respond, her mom calls from the café. “I’ve told you not to muck around with her in here. She could get . . .” Bianca pushes through the door and her shrewd gaze locks on mine. A smile teases the corner of her mouth as she looks back and forth between me and her brother. “Romy, what are you doing here?”

“Er . . . I . . .”

Bianca grins like the Cheshire cat before turning back to Elio. “Are we interrupting something?”

“No. Not at all.” He glances at the tart. Of course. He doesn’t want his family to know about his sexy baking until he’s got it all wrapped up.

“I just had a . . . baking question, and Elio was helping me answer it,” I add, nodding authoritatively.

“Really?” Bianca asks, amusement dancing in her eyes. “A question about what?”

“About . . .” I search the kitchen. Oven, tray, tart, crazy hot guy, fork— “About what these little tiny fork thingies are properly called. You know?” I wave it around like a weapon, as if the quicker I move my hand, the more likely it will be that my story sells. “I’m a wedding blogger. I have to know things about forks. How best to use forks. How to choose forks.”

How to lose forks. I sound like a Dr. Seuss book, and I want to take the fork and stab myself in the eye. How best to fork? What is wrong with me? And why can’t I stop making a fool of myself in front of not only this man I have a crush on but now his beautiful sister and her gorgeous kid, too?

“How about Coco and I leave you two to finish up with all that . . . forking,” Bianca says with a wink. She ushers her daughter out of the room with a promise of cupcakes, leaving Elio and I alone again.

“Sorry.” He grimaces.

“No, it’s fine.” I step closer to him, trying to regain that connection from a few minutes prior. I look up at him from under my eyelashes, giving him what I hope is a look filled with promise. Filled with sex. “Your dirty little cake secret is safe with me.”

“I knew I could count on you for that.” Relief washes over his features, and he glances to the front of the café. “I should go. But you stay here and finish off that tart.”

He turns to leave, then spins back, as if he forgot something. “Oh! And . . .”

He steps in close. The rough pad of his thumb swipes over my lower lip. I shiver. Wow.

“You had a little something there.” Elio dusts the crumbs free from his hands and turns to leave the kitchen.

Of course.

I had food on my face.

That was what our clearly one-sided “moment” was all about. How could I have thought otherwise?

I take the stupid pastry fork—yes, I know what it’s called, I work on a wedding blog for God’s sake—and stab at the tart with renewed viciousness.

He walks out, leaving me alone with my lemon, white chocolate, and thyme-flavored mouthgasm.

It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a sexual experience in more than a year, and from the looks of my current romantic situation, I’m going to need more of these tarts.