Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“And with home and away jerseys always being light and dark, it’s not an issue on the ice. Plus I know who to pass to and so on.”
He explains it with the confidence he carries around with him every day. I’m kind of amazed, especially since this is second nature to him. I want to understand him better.
“I’m sorry if I was barreling on about colors that didn’t mean much to you.” My mind races several steps ahead. “Is there something I should do differently when it comes to…design?”
He slows the pedaling, his chest rising and falling with the exercise as he slides into the cool-down. “Yeah. Take the lead, Mabel.”
I blink, processing that. “Really? You just want me to be in charge of design stuff?”
“You said I could be the nut taste-tester, right? Because you, for some unholy reason, dislike nuts?”
“Do you dislike color?”
“It doesn’t…inspire me. It doesn’t excite me. But it excites you, right?”
Is it weird that I feel incredibly seen right now? “It does,” I say, with a light, nervous laugh. “I love color combos, looks, and design. I’m pretty sure Pinterest was made for me. And there’s nothing as enjoyable as picking a design for a cupcake box. Except maybe doing a paint-by-numbers mural.”
He tilts his head, perhaps considering me or my remarks. Looking at me with a scrunched brow like he’s really taking that all in. “What’s your favorite color? Is it pink?”
“You might think so, and I do think the bakery should be pink and white, but actually, I’ve been having a love affair with lilac for a long time. It’s pretty much perfect.”
He smiles in a way I’ve never seen before on him—it’s amused meets fascinated. As he stops and steps off the bike, he says, “I’m not into any of that stuff since I’m no good at it. You should pick the colors. And pick the mural—we should have one on the wall in the shop. But I’ll show up and help you paint, especially since it’ll be paint-by-numbers. I’d be baller at that. And then you’ll help make the things with nuts.” He pauses then adds, “You trust me when I say people like brownies with nuts, right?”
That’s an unusual way of putting it, yet it makes perfect sense. “I suppose I do.”
“Then I trust you when it comes to how things look. Just let me know what colors you pick for the sign and the store and all. So I can act like I know what they’re talking about if a customer mentions it,” he says, and I file that detail away—he’s learned how to manage his color-blindness.
The least I can do is make the picking easy for him. “I’ll tell you right now. It’s pastel pink,” I say, then show him my favorite one. “We can use it for boxes, for the sign, for our cards with QR codes and so on.”
He looks at the paint chip, and at first it seems like he’s studying it, committing the color to memory. But then he looks up at me, locking eyes for a beat before he says, “Very pretty.”
My breath catches. He’s talking about the paint, but he’s looking at me. My chest squeezes. “I’m glad you like it,” I say, sounding breathy. “The color, that is. It’s called Blush.”
As if to demonstrate, my cheeks flame. Heat rushes up my neck, too, as Corbin’s gaze holds mine for even longer.
“Blush,” he repeats, with a crooked smile forming on his lips, like he’s having fun with the name of it, or perhaps the manifestation of it. “It sounds perfect,” he adds, wiping the back of his neck with a towel. “And this is one of the reasons I said yes to this venture. With you, I don’t have to think about how anything looks. Or stress about the design. Or worry it’d be ugly. It’s a relief.”
A smile teases my lips. I feel a lot less foolish and a lot more useful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I know you have great taste,” he says.
“How do you know?”
He steps closer, tilts his head, and lets his gaze roam up and down me. “Because you’re hot for me.”
Then he walks to the door, leaving me with my pink paint chips and his unfiltered assessment of my lust.
He looks like he’s about to turn down the hall on that mic drop. But instead, he turns around, shooting me a thoughtful look. “You want to come to the game tonight? I can leave a couple VIP tickets for you.”
I furrow my brow, thinking through my schedule. But really, my schedule for tonight is picking a mural for the wall of our bakery. Something fun, frothy, and playful. “Would it bother you if I was researching murals on my tablet while you’re chasing a little black disc?”
“Only if you don’t cheer when I score a goal.”