“I think you know which buns I want.”
“Cinnamon,” she answered, reaching over for a brown paper bag beneath the glass fronted cabinet. In the back, one of her bakers slammed a tray in the oven and cursed.
Irritation flickered through her – they never treated those ovens with respect – but she kept a straight face.
“No, no,” he answered, then grasped her wrist again, and heat waves assaulted her. “I’m in the mood for chocolate today.”
She stared him dead in the eye, willing the arousal to back the hell down. “Smooth,” she said wryly.
“Excuse me, miss. I’d like to pay?” said a hunched over granny, clasping a box of éclairs.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Adalia replied, sparing a frown for the handsome businessman. He winked a blue eye at her and she swallowed hard. “That will be five dollars.”
“Fiv
