“You love it.”
“I do,” I admit, and write it in big loopy letters like it’s already on a chalkboard.
He leans forward, forearms on the table, reading upside down. Our knees bump under the table. I tell myself it’s nothing. My pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“Also,” I say, flipping the page, “cupcakes and cocktails. You can do cocktails at the stand, right?”
“Beer cocktails, yeah. And we’ll have our two batched signature drinks. And NA options,” he adds, eyes flicking to me and awayin the same breath. “I’m playing with a ginger-lime spritz. Heavy on the real ginger. Been getting a lot of practice with that lately.”
My cheeks warm at his easy smile. “I will be its number-one fan.”
“I intend to keep you on payroll as chief taster of all things non-alcoholic.”
“Perks.” I jot: GINGER LIME SPRITZ / LEMON COOKIE? then circle it. “We could do a ‘Director’s Cut’ cupcake flight—three minis: dark chocolate ganache, lemon poppy, and a caramel corn thing. You do a flight of pairings. For the chocolate, something stout-adjacent?”
He nods, thinking. “If I pour our nitro porter at lower volume, it’ll hold in a keg bucket just fine. Chocolate cupcake, porter shot. Lemon poppy with the spritz. Caramel corn with… Hoffman Heritage.”
I write while thinking the pairings over. “You think it’ll pair?”
“Always a crowd favorite.” His mouth slants. “Sometimes it leans more caramel and sometimes toastier. We can change it depending on which.”
“That’s a good idea. If it’s more caramel, I can pair it with a salted caramel, and if it’s toasty, maybe a brown butter frosting?”
“Yeah, and make sure you doplentyof samples before then, so we really get a good idea of what we’re dealing with.” He nods, his face serious.
I nod, matching his seriousness. “I’ll make sure of it. Your tummy can rest easy.”
“Tummy?” He lifts a brow. “I’m a man, Paige. We don’t call it a ‘tummy.’ We prefer abdominals. Midsection. Core,” he says, trying and failing to look dignified about it.
“Then yourcorecan rest easy,” I amend, deadpan.
He taps the notepad like a judge ruling in my favor. “Better.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll make… a frankly irresponsible number of test cupcakes so your core can render a verdict.”
He leans back, long legs stretching out under the table until his boot nudges my ankle. “My core accepts these terms.”
Heat skitters up my shin at the casual contact. I pretend to study my scribbles. “Okay, so Director’s Cut flight, Snickerdoodle Shandy, ginger-lime spritz… maybe a ‘Matinee Special’ for kids? Lemonade and mini sugar cookies shaped like film reels?”
“Cute,” he says, then smirks. “Illegal levels of cute.”
We brainstorm like that for a while—names that make Ben groan, like Reel & Roll. I write them down anyway. Then he suggests Cinnemagic, which makes me giggle. We discussa “matinee box” for families coming earlier in the day with lemonade vouchers and themed cookies—which I might regret later. I sketch a little starburst that says INTERMISSION SPECIAL because it makes my inner menu nerd happy.
We’re… productive. And then we’re less productive, because he reaches across without thinking and swipes a thumb under my bottom lip.
“Sugar,” he says softly, showing me the streak of icing before he licks it off.
Oh, that’s unfair. My poor hormones don’t stand a chance.
“You’re a menace,” I tell him, and it comes out more breath than words.
His gaze drops to my mouth and back. “You started it.”
I try to scoff and fail. “How exactly did I start it?”
“By looking likethat,” he says, his voice dropping.
“Mm.” I try desperately to remember a single logistical thought. “I’ll… email the organizer about placement. If we can get a corner spot, we can do a little L-shape and—”
