Page 112 of Not Safe for Work

He retrieves a small saucepan and fills it with sugar from a bag he’s brought along. He turns on the stove and returns to the island, picking up a piping bag and holding it up.

“Won’t you say hi?” he asks me. “I’d love for everyone to meet you.”

He looks so hopeful that I find myself nodding.

With a grin, he flips over the camera so it’s pointed at me. His followers get a fleeting glimpse of me trying to pointlessly smooth down my hair before I wave to the camera.

“Say hi, Tris.”

“Hi, Tris,” I whisper, and Rafe grins before he turns the camera to himself. He peers at the screen for a moment.

“Read the comments,” he says, and I pick up my phone to see what his personal peanut gallery has decided.

Omg, she’s so pretty.

Rafe, who is that?

Do you looooove her?

Aw, this is so romantic.

Marry ME, not her.

I’m blown away by how connected they all are to this radiant version of Rafe.

Die BITCH.

Um, okay then.

I scroll through the barrage of comments while Molly reads over my shoulder.

Rafe is back at the stove, mixing sugar in the pot. He tests the temperature with a thermometer as he continues explaining his process to the camera.

Watching him like this, so confident, so in love with what he’s doing, standing in my kitchen, is a massive turn-on. I don’t know what’s going on, but everything in me softens.

“The sugar needs to be at 338 degrees Fahrenheit for this,” Rafe says as he continues to stir. He keeps up a stream of chatter until he’s satisfied. He sets up a baking sheet and covers it with a heat-resistant liner before pouring out the sugar in a series of complicated swirls and patterns.

“We’ll let these cool for a minute,” he says. Then he retrieves a piping bag of lemon curd and dollops some into each of the crusts. “Normally, I’d suggest also cooling these for a bit in the fridge, but we don’t have time for that today. You don’t mind slightly room-temperature tarts, do you, Tris?”

He looks up at me through thick, dark lashes, and I shake my head. “No,” I say, finding my voice. “Of course not.”

He returns to what he’s doing, swapping out the lemon for a piping bag full of meringue. He adds a swoosh to the top of each tart and then pulls out a tiny kitchen blowtorch.

Molly and I both ooh in amazement as he lights it and browns the meringue. He returns to the pan of cooling sugar decorations and then stops, placing both palms flat on the counter.

“Will you come over here?” he asks. “Please?”

I’m too confused to resist. I’m as pliable as a wet cotton ball. Molly gives me a nudge, and I make my way around the island.

Rafe watches me like I’m holding the moon in my hands.

He tops one of the tarts with a sugar-spun heart and then holds it up for me.

“For you,” he says. I study his face, searching for some explanation for all of this.

Sure, this is a nice gesture, but it’s been three days since I’ve heard from him.

“What is all this?” I ask, finally gathering my wits. “Why are you doing this?”