Welcome to America. We put bacon on everything.

He glances once more at the back of his menu, then places it into the waitress’s hand. “Eggs Benedict. And if it isn’t too much trouble, instead of the hash browns, can I get double sausage?”

“Sure,” she replies, stepping away with our order.

I grab two sugar packets and empty them into my coffee. When I glance up after stirring in some cream, I catch Mason’s eyes on me, and I wonder how long they’ve been there.

He leans back with a warm smile. “So, Brooke, tell me about working at the bakery.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you make everything you sell? Or are you strictly in charge of cupcakes?”

I chuckle against the lip of my mug. The steam billowing from my coffee evaporates into the air. “I’m not in charge of anything. Dylan is. I just do some of the baking for her. Everything except the wedding cakes. That’s all her.”

He looks surprised. “Why don’t you do those?”

“Because it’s a wedding cake. I don’t want to be responsible for something people pay hundreds of dollars for. And have you ever seen a pissed off bride? No way am I risking ruining someone’s big day.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I occasionally help out with the actual assembly of the cake, but all of the big detail work I am nowhere near skilled enough to do, Dylan handles. She’s amazing.”

“I bet you could do it,” he says. “Those cupcakes you gave me looked pretty complex.”

Complex? Compared to a wedding cake? This man is crazy.

“Yeah, okay. Have you ever seen a wedding cake? I can’t do that. We don’t even take requests for them when Dylan goes out on maternity leave. She meets with brides. Not me, and definitely not Joey. He’d end up somehow weaseling his way into the wedding party.”

Mason quietly laughs before taking a drink of his coffee. When he lowers his mug back to the table, he keeps his gaze on me, so plainly attentive, as if nothing could pull his eyes away.

My hands tangle together in my lap.

Have I ever been looked at like this before? With such raw interest, and not with some blatant underlying motive to get me naked and beneath whoever is staring at me?

Probably not, unless I’m related to the person.

We talk until our food arrives, and in between my massive bites of the best damn pancakes in Chicago. Mason polishes off his breakfast minutes before I’ve even made a dent in my tall stack. He drinks his coffee and freshly-squeezed juice while I finish off my plate, and after paying the check, he asks me what my plans are tomorrow morning.

“Sleeping,” I answer, smiling behind my glass when I pick up on his meaning. “No way am I waking up early again tomorrow. I don’t think you realize how vital my sleep is.”

He scratches his jaw. I can practically hear his mind working this out. “Okay. Friday then?”

I shake my head.

“Come on.”

“Why?”

“Because I like having you this early. And I think you had a nice time too. Stop fighting me. It’s just breakfast.”

I stare at him across the booth.

Just breakfast. Somehow, it seems like a lot more to Mason than just sharing a meal at the earliest part of the day. Will this become something regular, a routine we fall into where he orders for me before I even arrive? Not just beverages, but my food? Will he know what I like and how I like it, and on what days I want pancakes with blueberries instead of bacon?

More importantly, do I want him to know it?

I rub a hand down my face. As my eyes scan the table riddled with napkins and half-empty glasses, I spot an advertisement stuck between the salt and pepper shaker. My stomach makes an embarrassing sound as I look at the picture. How did I forget about this? I pinch the laminated picture between my fingers and hold it up for Mason to see.

“I’ll give you Tuesdays.”

He leans forward, taking the picture from me and staring at it. “All you can eat deep-fried stuffed French toast. Wow. Is that . . . Captain Crunch, the cereal? They put cereal on it?”

He looks adorably baffled, like the idea of using crushed up cereal on anything is the strangest suggestion.

“It’s out of this world, and extremely popular. You can only order it on Tuesdays and people will actually call ahead to secure their plates.” I snatch the picture from him and drop it between us. “You want me this early? You can have me on Tuesdays . . . only. Take it or leave it.”

He drops his elbows onto the table and presses his mouth against his hands. “You drive a hard bargain. I was hoping for multiple mornings.”

I shrug, studying my nails and the chipped polish on my thumb, looking anywhere but his face until his foot nudges against mine.

Our eyes lock. He shakes his head, then smiles at the frown pulling down my lips.

Fuck.

“Jerk,” I mutter. Of course I have to react to his phony rejection. I can’t just sit here and feign indifference. Now I look like the one who suggested this.

Well played, you gorgeous bastard. Well played.

He stands and tugs me to my feet, kissing my lips and murmuring, “I’ll take anything you give me, Brooke. Anything.”

I keep my hands tucked into the pockets of my jeans the entire walk to the bakery.

I haven’t sat down once today.

I can’t.

I’m full of nervous energy. Restless. Buzzing around my room like this is my first rodeo, and it’s not. It’s so not.

I’ve been on plenty of dates. Hundreds. Well, okay, maybe not hundreds, but enough where I shouldn’t be this anxious about one freaking dinner. Guys ask me out all the time, and who am I to turn down a free meal before we get down to business? I love to eat. I really love to have sex. Putting two of my favorite things together makes for one very happy Brooke. And hey, if the sex is lousy, at least I get an enjoyable meal out of it.

But that’s just it, right there. A meal is guaranteed tonight, but I have no idea if I’m getting laid. Dinner is pretty cut and dry, but after?

What the hell is happening after?

I, for one, feel like Mason and I know each other well enough for sex, based on his guidelines. More than well enough based on mine. We’ve talked, information has been exchanged. He knows more about me than any other guy I’ve been interested in recently. But is that enough for him?

He said he wants more. How much more? How much does he want from me?

I’ve seen Mason practically every day this week, between breakfast, coincidental, but maybe not so coincidental coffee-shop run-ins, to the occasional treats delivery, which I can’t seem to stop myself from doing. Christ, it’s like a damn compulsion. Even when he pops into the shop for a brief hello I’m shoving a bakery box at him like he’s one of those malnourished children you see on the UNICEF commercials.

Here! Eat this! You poor thing, you’re starving!

It’s his reaction that gets me. That’s why I do it. He takes that box and studies my creations like they should be displayed in a museum somewhere. Like they’re some precious gift. Like I’m giving him something amazing.

Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to feel like maybe I am giving him something more than just a pastry or a cupcake. Maybe he looks at my treats as another piece of me? The more he’s after?