Baiting Him (How to Catch an Alpha 2)

He blinks, leaning back out of my space and allowing me to finally breathe normally. “Did you just ask if I want a cookie?”

“Um . . . yes. You seem a little angry. Maybe your blood sugar is low.”

His lips twitch into a full smile, and I get a little lightheaded from the sight. “Do you have plans this evening?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take you out to dinner or get a coffee with you. Honestly, at this point, I don’t care what we do, as long as I get to spend some time with you, one on one, when neither of us is working.”

With a sudden giddiness racing through my system, I study him. I don’t fully understand why this insanely gorgeous man is pursuing me, but a part of me wants to find out. “I don’t have plans, but my shop doesn’t close until six. I’d need time to go home and change, so it would be late by the time I could meet you for dinner,” I ramble.

I swear I see relief cross his features before he tells me, “You should remember that I own a club. I don’t exactly keep normal hours myself. I’m good with a late dinner if you are.”

“I’m good with that.”

“Where’s your cell phone?” I pull it out of the back pocket of my jeans, and he takes it from me, then holds it up to my face to unlock the screen. The next thing I know, he’s swiping through it quickly and his cell phone is ringing. “Now I’ve got your number, and you have mine programmed into your phone. Just send me a message to let me know when you think you’ll be ready, and I’ll pick you up at your place.”

“I can meet you somewhere.”

“You’ve been working all day. I’d rather know you got to and from dinner safe without falling asleep.”

“Okay,” I agree, not allowing myself to feel the full force of that kind of consideration in case it’s just part of a game he might be the champion at playing.

“Now, about that cookie you mentioned earlier. Do you have any oatmeal cinnamon raisin?”

“I do.” I grab two from the showcase, put them in a brown paper bag with my logo stamped on the front, and hand it to him.

“How much?” He starts to reach into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Please don’t,” I say, and he stops. “Those are apology cookies, so they’re on the house.”

He takes one cookie out of the bag and holds it up to his mouth. “I’d rather have a different form of apology.”

“Yeah, and what would that be?”

“A kiss.” He bites into the cookie, winking, and my stomach summersaults. “Holy shit.”

“What?” I start to reach for the cookie to rip it from his grasp as my mind fills with thoughts of him biting into the shell of an egg or something worse.

He looks at my hand, raises a brow, and states “This is delicious” before taking another bite.

“Did you expect it to suck?” I laugh.

He shrugs one shoulder, takes another bite, and then, once he’s chewed and swallowed, he tells me, “My mom made the best cookies I ever tasted . . . up until now.” His expression grows playful. “But if you ever tell her I said that, I’ll call you a liar.”

I laugh again, remembering how easy he is to talk to from the last time we were together and how much he makes me laugh. “So are you a mama’s boy?”

“Oh yeah.” He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. “At least tell me I’m not going to find out you live in her basement and depend on her to cook for you and do your laundry.”

He chuckles. “No, my mom lives in Jersey in the summer and Florida in the winter. She has more of a social life than I do, and I don’t even want to imagine what she’d say or do if I ever asked her to do my laundry. She might cook for me when she’s in town, but that’s just because she likes to eat and it’s a necessity.”

“Got it.” Just then the shop door opens, and I’m momentarily distracted by the large group of teenagers coming in. They’re loud and playful as they claim their usual seats near the front window, placing their bags and coats there before starting for the counter.

“I should let you get to work,” Gaston says, gaining my attention once more, and I instantly don’t want him to go, which is ridiculous. “Text me, and I’ll see you this evening.”

“All right, I’ll see you this evening,” I agree, and he winks before leaving and continuing his jog while holding a paper bag with one less cookie. As soon as he’s out of sight, Aubrey and Rachelle rush out of the back kitchen, and both girls jump up and down while holding on to me, which seems to be the only way they know how to react when they are excited.