Page 78 of Not Safe for Work

I tap on a video that shows someone decorating a cake with perfectly precise lines of icing. Familiar hands. Hands attached to the most perfect forearms I’ve ever seen. Ones I’ve fantasized about an embarrassing number of times. A moment later, a face fills the screen. A face I’ve studied with such dedication that I could tell you the exact latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates of that soul-shattering dimple.

I look up, finding a wariness in his expression that twists my heart.

“You’re a… baker?”

He grabs the phone. “Never mind. It’s stupid, I know.” I yank the phone from his grasp and hold it against me. I am not failing this trust fall.

“Excuse me. But this is not stupid.”

I scroll through the photos. There are thousands and thousands of likes and comments on every single one. People gushing over him. People fawning over his talent. People asking for his hand in marriage. I keep scrolling, tapping on his live video feed, and there he is, smiling and talking to the camera as he walks through a cute Hawaiian bakery full of colorful macarons. I turn up the volume, and there he is. Charming Rafe. Charismatic Rafe. The Rafe he’s always been for everyone but me.

He’s talking to the camera, explaining to his followers why he’s in Maui as he describes the setting in loving detail. Comments pop up on the screen.

Swooning, declarative, and totally in love with Rafe the Baker.

I remember the drawings in his sketchbook of those elaborate desserts. His disdain for the dry lemon tarts in the airport. Now it all makes sense.

“The Dessert Wolf?” I ask, reading out the name of his account.

He shrugs. “Rafe sort of means wolf in Old English.”

Of course it does.

“This is incredible. And amazing. I literally couldn’t be more surprised or pleased if you’d told me you were my fairy godmother here to send me to the ball.”

His shoulders drop, and he lets out a slow breath. I can practically feel his tension melt away, but I’m also confused by his reaction.

“You really think so?”

I nod and then shake my head. I have never, ever seen Rafe Gallagher anything but fully and totally confident in himself, but he looks like a lost little boy seeking approval.

“I really think so. What the hell, Rafe? How did I not know about this? I definitely would have liked you better if I’d known you could make me cake.”

His eyes darken a little. “Hardly anyone knows about this. My family, Hannah. That’s it. I keep it quiet.”

“But why? You’re incredible.” I scroll through a few more images, marveling at these actual works of art. He shrugs, but there is nothing casual about the gesture.

“My father disapproves. He thinks it’s a waste of time and I’m an embarrassment to him. This is also why I need motivating.” He doesn’t say what else his father believes, but I can guess what David Gallagher thinks of his son’s desire to be a pastry chef.

“I went to Vegas for a two-week course with Victoria Avery last year. She was amazing. Her chocolate sculptures are masterpieces.”

I’ve just scrolled to a string of photos from those same two weeks. Poetry. True honest-to-goodness poetry rendered in chocolate. Flowers and clocks and even a rocking horse so lifelike, I can easily imagine a child riding it. “Hannah was so pissed I used two weeks of my vacation time for it. She wanted to go to Italy. So, as a compromise, we stayed at the Venetian. She sat by the pool the entire time, angry, while pointing out all the reasons this wasn’t as good as the real Venice. But it was one of the most formative experiences of my life.”

The ache in his voice surprises me. I’ve spent the last two weeks delving into the layers of Rafe, but he keeps revealing new ones I would never have guessed existed at all.

“This is what you want to do?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Maybe I want to work in a restaurant or open my own shop? I’ve never really let myself think about it too much. Remember when I said I caused my mom a lot of stress? This is mostly why. I swear that almost every time I see my parents, my dad and I fight about it, and it kills her. I hate doing that to her.”

“Oh,” I reply because this is truly one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. I’ve returned to the video of him in the macaron shop as he talks to his adoring fans and shows off his purchase.

“Wait,” I say, looking up at him. “The macarons. You knew they would go stale and wouldn’t survive the trip back home. You didn’t buy those for Hannah.”

Rafe’s eyes spark, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve always loved how you eat even the cheapest piece of sugary birthday cake as though it’s the most decadent thing ever to cross your lips.”

I frown. “What?”

“In the office, when it’s someone’s birthday and they buy some shitty cake, I love how much you enjoy it.”