Slight plot deviation. Cake tasting > flowers. More fun this way! I'm pantsing some of these details as we go.

A tidal wave of pleasure floods my brain, dissolving my willpower in its wake. This is a mistake. A delicious, sinful mistake. I know I shouldn't, but I can't stop myself. I need more.

"Oh my god," I moan, taking another bite of triple-chocolate cake. "This cake is unreal."

I scrape up the remaining crumbs, closing my eyes as I slide the last morsel into my mouth, savoring the velvety cocoa and chocolate buttercream frosting. I wish there was more, but it's probably for the best that there isn't. My dress will split open if I eat another bite.

Plates of half-finished cake slices surround us; vanilla bean with raspberry filling, lemon with lemon curd, carrot with cream cheese frosting, strawberries and cream, and mocha with espresso ganache. Plus, two scraped-clean plates from the triple chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling, because I stole the rest of Dean's.

When I reopen my eyes, Dean is studying me with a combination of amusement and something that I want to call desire, except we're in the middle of a cake shop.

"What?" I set down the fork, my cheeks flaring with heat.

He glances around casually before placing a hand along the back of my chair, leaning closer. His fingertips graze my shoulder, eliciting goosebumps in response, and his delicious, masculine cologne drifts into my airspace. He smells expensive, somehow, like a risk I can't afford to take. Unfortunately for my no-sex declaration, I'm not good at staying on budget—in any sense of the term.

"Those sounds make me think very dirty things, Lululemon."

The warmth in my face increases, because that's his bedroom voice, usually reserved for issuing commands under dramatically different scenarios. Ones involving a lot less clothing and me down on my knees.

In a stroke of either the best or worst timing ever, the head baker Michel appears, and Dean straightens in his seat, his expression returning to its default impassive setting. I cross my legs, willing the inconvenient throb between them to disappear.

"Did you like the Chocolate Overdose?" Michel clasps his hands. "It's our signature flavor."

"It's amazing." I push the empty plate aside. "This is a definite yes."

"But Brendan doesn't like chocolate," Dean points out, as if I don't know that about my own brother.

"Vidya does," I remind him. "Chocolate is her favorite. Besides, the big day is really more about the bride."

Something flashes across Dean's face for a nanosecond. "It's his wedding, too." His voice is a little too level.

Michel studies us, bemused. After the previous complication with the caterer, we didn't bother trying to explain who we were to the cake vendor. It seemed easier at the time, but now he thinks we are Vidya and Brendan, and that we are referring to ourselves in the third person.

"I'll leave you two to discuss." Michel offers us a tense smile, bolting for the back counter. "Just call when you have made a decision," he calls over his shoulder.

After Michel disappears out of earshot, I turn to Dean.

"What's your problem?" I yell-whisper.

"My problem?" he repeats, dropping back into his bedroom voice. He isn't playing even a little bit fair. "You just started making decisions unilaterally all of a sudden."

"Do I have to get your permission?"

Dean inclines his head and raises his eyebrows, giving me a warning look. All it does is make me want to aggravate him more often so he can punish...My gaze lands on the display case of cakes and pastries behind him, bright white walls, and Michel's barely-visible head through a window leading into the back. Get it together, Brooke.

"I'm here because you said you needed help." His tone is gruff, but the quirk of his lips betrays it. "Remember?"

"I do. I also remember that they told us to pick two flavors. Brendan gets the other flavor. Not both. It's called compromise."

His fingers brush against my shoulder again, and I'm certain it's no accident. But his face remains neutral.

"Wouldn't compromise be picking flavors they both like? Brendan likes anything except chocolate. There are lots of other options."

"They should each get their favorite," I argue. "Most people like chocolate. My brother's weird chocolate aversion shouldn't trump pleasing Vidya and their guests."

Not to mention, that triple chocolate cake was almost better than sex. Okay, fine—it wasn't even in the same universe as sex with Dean. But the sex I've had before, with other, mere mortal guys? Pretty damn close.

A small crinkle appears in his forehead. "You don't think it matters if he hates half his wedding cake?"

"He can have the carrot cake layer. That's what he asked for, anyway."

I cross my legs, intentionally brushing my thigh against his, and his jaw tenses. Why is he so hot when he's annoyed? What's wrong with me? As payback, he runs his thumb along the thin strap of my dress, sending off a cascade fireworks within my body.

Michel pokes his head out of the kitchen, eyes darting between us nervously. "How are we doing out there?"

"Great," I call back, flashing him a broad smile. "Just finalizing our decision. They're all so delicious, it's hard to choose."

I glance down at my watch and discover it's already past 4:00 PM, which is when the bakery closes on Fridays. I'm sure Michel wants us to pick something and get the hell out already.

"It's getting late, Dean. Can we go with carrot cake and chocolate? I think Michel is going to pick for us if we don't make a call."

Dean holds up his hands in resignation. "Just let the record show that I tried to advocate for Brendan's interests."

"Don't worry, if anyone's getting thrown under the bus for screwing up this wedding, it'll be me."

Surprise stretches across his face, and his demeanor immediately softens. "You think I'd throw you under the bus? I wouldn't do that."

"No," I say, a little too quickly. "I mean, nevermind."

What I was getting at is, I'm the disappointment of our family, known for nearly burning down kitchens, flooding the bathroom—twice—and assorted other catastrophic mistakes. And truthfully, if anything does go wrong, it will probably be my fault. But I don't want to say that to Dean. Then again, he probably already knows. I'm sure he knows all kinds of things I wish he didn't.

We relay our recommendations to Brendan and Vidya via text, who indicate their agreement, and then we quickly confim the choices with Michel. By the time we walk outside, it's a quarter after four—far too early for dinner, not that either of us have room after all the cake. Or at least I certainly don't, since I ate way more of it than Dean. I think I ate the equivalent of an entire bottom layer.

With our reservation in two more hours in a location Dean refuses to reveal, we opt to walk around and window shop for awhile before going to his car. The bakery is located in a gentrifying area, lined with independent shops and boutiques, plus a handful of chains—including the mother ship itself, Lululemon. I've never really shopped with a guy before, and I'm skeptical at first, but Dean is surprisingly good retail company. He even lets me drag him into Lulu for a while, where he insists on buying a sweater that I tried on.

I'm basically delirious from the shopping, the sugar, and his presence when approach his red Cayenne with our hands intertwined. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he releases my hand to pull it out, lips pressing into a line when he sees the screen. His eyes travel back and forth, reading the message, and he shakes his head silently. Then he quickly types a reply, and when he receives one almost instantly in return, he pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"I cannot believe I'm saying this, but I have to take care of something." He slips the phone back into his pocket, expression grim.

My heart capsizes. "Now?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Disappointment slaps me in the face, but I will myself not to react outwardly because, when it comes down to it, I'm stubbornly prideful. Besides, I knew the other shoe was going to drop eventually. Things had been going way too smoothly with him.

"Right." I reach around him for the door handle, and he gently grabs hold of my wrist, turning me to face him. Our gazes lock and my stomach flips, composure faltering.

He strokes the delicate skin of my inner wrist, and I melt a little. "Trust me, Brooke. There's nothing I'd rather do right now than go for dinner with you. I can come by your place after I deal with this. It probably won't take that long."

Based on what he's told me, I'm guessing this has something to do with his brother. At least, I hope it does. Any of the alternative explanations are a lot more problematic. Dealbreakers, to be precise.

But without knowing what's going on and why he's bailing on me for sure, it's hard to gauge what I should do.

When I don't respond, his green eyes search mine, pleading. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

There's something different in his expression that I can't place. It might be vulnerability. It's not something I've ever seen on him before. Either way, it's an impossible look to resist. My heart and my body are a given, but even my brain is taking the bait.

"Fine," I say. "But I have conditions upon your return."

"Which are?" Dean frowns in confusion.

"Bring dinner. I pick what we watch. And you have to wear sweatpants. If I have to go home and wait around for you, all of this"—I gesture to my floral-patterned dress and gold wedge sandals—"is coming off, and the comfy stuff is going on. I can't be the only one dressed down."

He breaks into a grin at the second part of my request. "Done."

*

After Dean drops me off, I stay true to my word and immediately strip out of my nice date night wear, throwing on a pair of Lululemon Align leggings, a black racerback tank top, and the soft blue sweater Dean bought me earlier.

Then I clean my apartment again, though it was already pretty tidy when he picked me up, and boot up my computer to do some recon per Nolan's request. He asked if there was proof I'd sent Aaliyah's designs to Jade, and my crappy night turns around when I discover there is. I have an email in my archives where I sent Jade the link, including a response from her that makes it clear she'd looked at it. Turns out, never organizing my emails —and thus, never deleting any of them—has come in pretty handy.

Nolan and I also touched on what Jade did to me, though he confirmed what I already knew: it's a difficult thing to pursue. While what she did to me was technically defamatory, I'm not sure I have the time or mental energy to expend trying to go after her for that, especially when I've been trying to close that chapter of my life.

I criss-cross my legs and grab my grapefruit LaCroix, sifting through more old emails for additional ammunition to take down the backstabbing blogger formerly known as my best friend. Half an hour into my investigating, my phone pings with a text from Dean informing me he'll be over in fifteen minutes. My vital signs go haywire, which is bizarre when I consider that I'd just seen him a couple hours ago.

When I open the door, they go haywire again.

Dean is standing in front of me wearing a white tee that hugs his muscular biceps, grey joggers that hug, well, everything, and pristine white sneakers. I was unaware that he possessed any of said items of clothing. I was similarly unaware of how good he'd look in them, which poses a major problem for my no-sex resolution.

He's holding Thai takeout, which smells delicious, but he looks even more delicious.

"You actually own a pair of sweatpants?" I ask, stepping out of the way to let him in.

Dean gives me a crooked grin. "Did you think I wore suits around my apartment all the time?"

"Honestly? Yes."

We walk into my kitchen and he sets the bags of food down, turning back to face me. His hands slide around my waist and he steps closer, enveloping me in a wall of warm, cologne-scented muscle. He traces his fingertips along the hem of the soft blue knit material, slipping beneath it to skim along my bare skin.

"Nice sweater," he murmurs.

"Thanks," I say, though I'm not sure I'll be wearing the sweater much longer. "You have pretty good taste, huh?"

"I certainly do."

Dean's expression turns wolffish and he brings his lips to mine, plying gently. My lips part instantly in response and his tongue brushes against mine in a spearmint-tinted kiss. Everything I was feeling in the bakery earlier comes rushing back, multiplied a hundred times over.

Before I know what's happening, he slides his hands down my backside and lifts me up, placing me on the granite counter. My hands loop around his neck, pulling him closer until he's pressed up between my legs. He cradles my face, thumb running across the skin, and angles his mouth against mine, deepening the kiss and eliminating any shred of self control I'd had left.

When we pull apart, my heart is speeding so much, it belongs on a Formula 1 track.

"Dammit, Dean."

"What?" He inclines his head, giving me an innocent look. But no one who can kiss like that is innocent.

"I like you," I blurt out. "And I don't know what this is. Or how you feel."

His expression is incredulous. "Of course I like you. I thought that was sort of the point. Why else do you think I'm here?"

"I don't know, sex?" As the words leave my lips, I wonder if I'll offend him by saying that, but it's the truth. I'm not entirely sure what his motives are.

"You put an end to that, remember?" He asks, but he seems unfazed by it. Either he doesn't mind, or doesn't think it will stick. Or he doesn't mind because he thinks it won't stick, which is probably a pretty accurate assessment.

"But you're still"—I gesture between us vaguely—"Trying to seduce me."

"By kissing you?" He reaches up, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. "I love kissing you. But I can stop if you want."

"No, I don't want you to stop. As long as you're not..."

Dean waits expectantly for me to finish and I deeply regret the sentence I just started. Squaring my shoulders, I summon every ounce of courage I possess to spit out the words.

"...doing that with anyone else," I finish.

This is the most painful exclusivity talk ever.

"I'm not." His hand slips underneath my sweater to rub my bare lower back, palm rough and warm against my skin. "I haven't been with anyone since the first time I slept with you. Hopefully that goes both ways."

While Dean can be hard to read at times, somehow I know he's telling me the truth.

"It does."

How could it not? All the other men I see seem like trolls now. He's ruined me.

His lips tip into a smile. "Good."

But somehow, I am more confused than before we'd had this conversation.

WHAT just happened?