Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

TYSHAWN

"How do I look?" I ask my roommate, Sam, holding out my arms.

Sam stands from the couch, circling me and taking in the simple blue polo shirt and gray dress pants I have on. The outfit is nothing fancy, but I'm not going to a corporate job interview, so it should be fine.

The look of approval is clear on his face when he circles back in front of me, and I grin at him. "Professional, but laid-back. Like you're going to give a kick-ass tasting to those uptight fucks at Ray's Beanery."

I laugh, dropping my arms to my side and running a hand over my hair, making sure not to mess up my waves. "Yeah, well, those uptight fucks might open a door for me to get my baking out there."

Sam shrugs. "You can do it on your own. Everything you bake is fucking delicious. Beth wants to come over for your cupcakes more than she wants to see me." He taps a finger on his chin as he talks about his girlfriend. "Now that I mention it, I'm a little upset by that."

Rolling my eyes playfully, I step in front of the mirror mounted beside our front door and check myself out. Even though it's cool in our apartment, my nerves are getting the better of me. A light sheen of sweat coats my forehead and upper lip, making my brown skin look damp and shiny. I quickly dab at it, not really making a difference. Sam hands me a tissue from the box on the table, and I take it with a quick thanks.

I got a haircut yesterday must for this interview, my fade fresh and neat. My barber even offered to make my face baby smooth with a straight razor. I was scared shitless, but he didn't nick me at all, and it came out well.

Even though I'm confident, nervousness and apprehension shines back at me from my different colored eyes. The blue and brown reflected stare gives me pause, but only for a moment. I look and feel good, but there's always a chance this won't pan out. The boss at Ray's Beanery could tell me no, that they don't want to exclusively stock my goods.

But why would they return my call about the inquiry if they were going to turn me down? They could have said that shit over the phone or, better yet, replied to the email I sent.

Ray's Beanery, the only coffee shop that's not owned by any major corporation, advertised they'd let locals bring in baked goods to sell about a year back. I was hesitant, afraid they wouldn't not be interested or drop the idea after a few months. But Sam convinced me to give it a shot, and they messaged me promptly with a time for a tasting. I had to read and reread the email before I believed it was real.

I blow out a long breath. I can't have thoughts that I'm going to fuck up—I haven't even stepped out of the apartment yet. As my grandfather used to say, "Don't borrow worry. It'll be there if you need it."

Sam must see my mental dilemma. He steps up behind me and rubs my shoulders, his six foot three frame making my five foot seven height appear small. His dark brown eyes are bright, radiating calm that I soak up like a greedy fucking sponge. He takes several deep breaths in and out, giving me a nudge to imitate him. I do, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"You got this, Ty. This is your gig. Soon, Ty's Delicious Creations will be everywhere," Sam says, hyping me up. I give him a droll look. "We'll go back to the drawing board to figure out a name for your bakery. But the word delicious needs to be in there somewhere. I don't know what you do to those muffins, but they're fantastic. Beth loves them too. I think if you were bi, she would leave me solely for your baking."

That gets a real laugh out of me. Shaking my head, I push his hands off my shoulders and grab the basket that contains what I hope to be the first of many baked goods that Ray's Beanery showcases. "I'm sure that's not true. She only has eyes for you."

Sam waves me away good-naturedly. "You know how long she gushed about your eyes?"

I smirk. My eyes are a noticeable feature. Most people don't have one blue and one light brown eye. I'm not sure where the blue came from, as both my parents and their parents before them have either light or dark brown eyes. It's always the first thing someone notices about me. It gets kind of old.

Checking myself over one more time, I nod and turn to Sam as I'm pulling open the apartment door. "Wish me luck, Sammy."

"Good luck, even though you don't need it. Beth and I will take you out for drinks after you nail this shit!" he shouts to my back just as I'm closing the door. The faith he has in me makes my heart light. I need to shake the nerves off and have faith in myself.

The drive to Ray's Beanery is short. I don't have time to worry that this is a mistake or they won't like what I baked. Baking is in my blood. Hopefully the owner thinks what I prepared tastes as good as Sam and Beth do.

Before I go inside of the coffee shop, I blow out a few long breaths, trying to center myself and build up my confidence. "You got this, Ty," I mutter to myself. "You got this. Even if they only showcase your baked goods for a few days, that's enough. Even one person tasting and wanting more would mean the world. This is your stepping stone. You got this."

If I stay in this car much longer, I'll put in in drive and go back home. I grab my basket and throw open my car door, ready to blow Mr. Ray away with my treats.

The coffee shop is busy, even though it's a little after noon on a weekday. A college crowd is bustling about, laptops open and books littering the tables. The shop has a nice vibe.

The aesthetics are nice too, reminiscent of something I'd see on a movie or TV show. The chairs and tables don't really match, but they're the same color scheme made up of earth tones—browns and different shades of green. As I look around, splashes of color peek out that give the shop an authentic feel. It not only speaks but shouts the impression that this is a coffee shop owned by an individual rather than a corporation. You can't buy this kind of down-home feel. I love it.

When I approach the counter, the Hispanic man behind it smiles at me. "Welcome to Ray's Beanery. I'm Marco. What can I get you?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Anderson. I'm Tyshawn Glassby."

The man's face furrows in confusion, but his smile stays in place. "Um … Is he expecting you?"

"I think so?" Fuck, the nerves are back. I figured the boss would have told whoever was at the counter that I had an interview today. "I have these?" I hold up the basket and kick myself. He doesn't know what's in the basket, so that answers nothing. And why am I ending all of my sentences like a question?

To his credit, Marco doesn't laugh or call me a dumbass. He simply nods. "I'm not sure Leo is in. Give me a moment, and I'll go check the back. You can have a seat by the stage. That's usually the least crowded place."

That's a good idea. If I stand here much longer without Mr. Anderson making an appearance, my legs will give out. "Thank you. I'll be just over there." Then I point, like a fucking imbecile. Of course, I'll be over there. That's where he told me to go.

Instead of making an even bigger fool of myself, I weave around the tables and chairs and sit down beside the stage. I'll be even more on edge if I keep watching the door, hence why I'm looking at an empty stage.

I should have asked Sam to come with me. Even if he didn't sit in on the tasting, he could have been my support. Sammy works from home as a graphic designer. Since he makes his own schedule, he could have chilled here for an hour, made sure I wasn't spiraling, then left when he saw I had shit under control.

A frustrated sigh leaves my lips as I drum my fingers on the table. I can do this. I'm capable of handling this interview on my own.

"Sorry, I'm late," a smooth voice says, and my mouth drops open when a good-looking man drops down in the empty chair in front of me.

This whole time I thought an old man owned the place. The man sitting across from me is a fucking snack. Holy fuck.

He's maybe early or mid-thirties, tall, blond, and fucking jacked. I'm not sure how he fits in the small chair he's perched on. Not like he's steroid built. He's solid, muscles gained from strenuous gym workouts or hard labor.

Not only is his body nice, but he has the face to match. His blue-green eyes are luminous and vibrant, the smile tilting his lips crinkling them in the corners. And his smile, Jesus his smile. He has dimples so deep if I stuck my finger in one it might get lost. Even, white teeth flash at me as he folds his hands on the table.

"You're not old," I blurt out and want to fucking kick myself. Sometimes, the filter between my brain and my mouth is broken.

Thankfully, the man—Mr. Anderson, I presume—chuckles, shaking his head so his blond hair falls into his face. He pushes it back with a quick swipe of his hand. "No, I'm not. I'm thirty-three. Though to some, that's still pretty old. What about you?"

"Oh. I'm twenty four."

His smile hasn't dimmed, a sign that I didn't fuck this tasting up before it started. "Forgive me," he says in an apologetic tone. "I'm Leo Anderson. I have a partner, June King, but he's on vacation this week. I'll be conducting your tasting today." He holds his hand out, and I shake it firmly. His much larger hand engulfs mine, warm against my palm.

"Tyshawn. Tyshawn Glassby. Though most people call me Ty. You can call me Ty. Or Tyshawn or Glass. No, not Glass, that's stupid. No one calls me Glass." I clamp my lips shut. I'm rambling. I square my shoulders and try again. "I'm Tyshawn. You can call me Ty."

"So Glass is off the table?" His eyes twinkle with mirth, and I'm not sure if I should be mortified or roll with it.

Fuck it. I'm going to roll with it. "Glass is off the table. Sorry for the inconvenience there."

Leo chuckles. "Maybe I'll wear you down one day."

Is he flirting? That tone sounded very flirty. "I doubt it, but you're welcome to try." Fuck, am I flirting now?

We sit silent for a moment, just staring at each other. Fucking hell, Leo is fine. Like really fine. It's obvious he knows it, the self-assured air surrounding him telling me as much. He has the right to feel that way with a face and body like that.

Finally, I shake my head to get myself back in the game. "I have some baked goods for you to sample. They're recipes passed down in my family that I tweaked and made my own. I'd like to showcase some here if you'll allow me."

"Let's see what you have." Leo sits back in his chair to give me space to rest my basket. His eyes bore into me, like he's trying to stare into my soul. It's not a bad feeling. It sends a shiver down my spine that I fight to suppress. "We don't have anyone on the calendar for the foreseeable future, so if they're as good as your email claims, you could be a permanent fixture here."

I'll admit that I talked myself up in my email, telling Mr. Anderson—Leo— that my cupcakes will be the best he's ever tasted, and if he's not a cupcake person, I have cookies and Danishes that would satisfy anyone with a sweet tooth. I went all out selling myself —I just hope it doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.

Keeping up my confident air, I say, "They're better. Which would you like to try first?"

He points to one of the cookies with a smile. "I'll try one of these first. The cupcake can be next." He winks at me, and my face heats. "What is it?"

"It's a lemon drop and lavender cookie."

Leo wrinkles his nose. "Lavender in a cookie?"

"Don't let that deter you. It's not a lot of lavender, and it helps balance the taste of the lemon drop. It's not sweet like most cookies, but it packs flavor."

Grabbing a napkin from my basket, I place a cookie on it, and I slide it over to him. For some reason, I expect Leo to stuff the whole thing in his mouth with little to no grace. He surprises me when he takes an almost dainty but hearty bite. My lungs stop working as I wait for his verdict.

Leo chews thoughtfully, his expression giving nothing away. I stare at his mouth, surprisingly more because his lips are nice and plump than wondering if he likes the cookie. Focusing on Leo and his good looks bring my nervousness down rather than making me even more so. For some reason I can't quite put my finger on, he's calming me. I don't know him, and he practically holds my future in his hands— and mouth—but I'm at ease enough to joke and even flirt. After my word vomit earlier, that is.

While Leo chews, he maintains eye contact. There's something behind his stare that I can't nail down. It's searching, roving, and … something else. Something more intimate and intense.

Finally, Leo swallows and nods, dropping his gaze as he sets the rest of the cookie back on the napkin. I blow out my pent-up breath, both from nerves at if he liked the cookie and from how intensely he stared at me. "I didn't expect a lavender cookie to taste so good." I beam. "What's next?"

The cupcake is placed in front of him, and he picks it up in the same graceful way he did the cookie, peeling the wrapper from the base.

"That's a red velvet cupcake with homemade vanilla icing," I say.

Leo takes a generous bite, and to my immense pleasure, he groans as he starts chewing. He waits until he's swallowed his mouthful before he gives me the verdict. "That's delicious. Jesus, I don't think I've ever had a cupcake that moist. Looks like you were right about them being better than you described."

I want to laugh at the word moist because I'm obviously a child, but I stifle it by sheer force of will. "Thank you."

"Another cookie?" he asks, pointing to the one with the cinnamon on top.

"Mhm."

I slide it over to him. "That's snickerdoodle and marshmallow."

Leo takes a bite, then his eyes roll to the back of his head. He groans in satisfaction. Fuck, there's nothing hotter than a man enjoying my food and making it obvious he loves it. "Okay, I don't need to taste more. Whatever you want us to showcase, we will. You're truly talented, Ty," Leo says earnestly.

I duck my head, smiling. "Thank you." Those two words don't seem like enough, but it's all I can muster right now.

"You're welcome. How long have you been baking?"

"All my life, really. My parents loved to cook, and my mother and I spent a lot of time tweaking old recipes and making up our own. The snickerdoodle and marshmallow cookie is the first recipe we wrote in our family cookbook," I tell him, pointing to the cookie.

He nods, picking it up and taking another bite. Once he swallows, he says, "I think that one is my favorite. Your mom will be proud to see your creations in front of people."

I smile sadly. "She would have been. She died two years ago." I swallow down the pain of her loss. "It means a lot that it's your favorite.

"I'm sorry," Leo mutters. Something about his condolence sounds … hollow. Not like he doesn't mean it. Like it's a reflex because that's what people say rather than him actually empathizing.

That's probably not the case, and my grief is overshadowing his sincerity. Maybe my assessment of him is all in my head.

"Thank you," I mutter, accepting his condolences. Not wanting to dwell on my pain, I search around for something to talk about. I'm not sure why. He's already said he's going to showcase my goods. I should go home and geek out in peace. "Who's the shop named after?"

"My old boss. He died about a year ago. Left the shop to me and my best friend."

And I bring the conversation back around to death. I'm really knocking it out of the park here. Though he might know some of what I feel since someone close to him died. "Fuck, I'm sorry." I slap my hand over my mouth. "Fuck, I shouldn't say fuck. Dammit. Shit. Fire me now." I drop my hand and lower my head.

Leo's laugh makes my chest feel light. Something about him makes me feel good. It's weird since, again, I don't know him. "I'm technically not your boss, so you can say fuck if you want."

A relived chuckle bursts forth. "I'm actually going to quit while I'm ahead." I clear my throat and ask, "Do I need to sign something or…?"

"Yeah. It's a quick liability contract, but I don't have it. June, my business partner, will send it to you when he gets back, along with the quantity of items we want on a given day and some other stuff I have no idea about. He does the paperwork because he's more organized than I am." Leo jokes. Then he winks at me again.

I'm not sure why, but that wink sends all the blood from my brain south to my dick. It wasn't even overly sexual, but my brain takes in his flirting, his deep, penetrating gazes, and his probing questions and thinks the wink adds the cherry on top of my "I want Leo" fantasy cake.

I have to get out of here. If I don't, I'll say something stupid, like I think he's hot, and since he's not my boss, we should have a drink and see where the night takes us. That's crazy on many levels, namely that I don't know if Leo is even into men. His bulging biceps look like they could pack quite the punch, literally. I'd rather not get my ass beat because I hit on a straight guy.

Standing quickly, I scoop up the basket and almost topple my chair over. Leo stands at a more sedate pace, an eyebrow raised.

"Thank you, Leo. Mr. Anderson. Thank you. I appreciate you seeing me today. I can't wait to work with?—"

"You have really interesting eyes. I'm sure you get that a lot."

That comment deflates me. Of course that's why he's staring at me. I already get asked if I'm wearing contacts because it's a novelty to see a Black person with any color eyes besides brown. Add to that one is an almost piercing blue? Yeah, I get the looks and questions. That's the only reason Leo was staring at me so hard I thought his gaze would sear my retinas. It's my eyes. Nothing more.

Sighing, I nod. "So I've been told." I shouldn't be upset. I need to push this silly crush out of my mind. "Thank you again."

I turn away before he can say anything more. I almost make a clean getaway, until I trip over a bag on the floor I didn't see. Tumbling forward, I throw out my hands to break my fall, but one swipes on the edge of another chair, and the other scrapes against the floor.

"Son of a bitch!" I curse, my hands burning. I turn them over and cringe at their state. Blood is trickling down one of my palms. Thankfully, the other is merely skinned. How fucking embarrassing.

The guy whose bag I tripped over runs to get me some napkins, apologizing while tucking his backpack away. A little late for that.

Leo kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his. His hands feel fucking amazing—large, gentle and so warm.

His fingers ghost over the skin of my palm that's bleeding, and I try to pull back so he's not touching my blood, but he holds my hand steady, swiping his index finger through the coppery liquid. "Let's get this cleaned up. I have a first aid kit."

Leo's eyes flick up to mine, and I'm entranced. I would have said yes even if I didn't need first aid. I'm not sure what kind of hold he has over me after only thirty minutes in his presence, but it's dangerous.

Funny, I've always shied away from danger before.