Starting on the next tub of dough gave her something to think about other than the man sitting a mere five feet away from her. She started cutting and weighing the dough. “So what kind of planes do you fly? 747s or something like that?”
    “No. Not anymore. Light business jets.”
    “Like for executives?”
    “Executives, politicians, athletes, celebrities. I work for a fractional, so it’s different people all the time. You know, they buy a share of a particular plane so they can travel whenever they want without having to pay for the whole thing and the cost of having a crew on standby.”
    “Do you enjoy it?”
    “Sure.”
    Melody cast a look his direction. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”
    Justin chuckled and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Had you not asked me at the end of a seven-day, twenty-five-leg tour—followed by being stranded in the snow—I probably would have said yes, absolutely.”
    “Okay, I guess I can give you that one. You said, ‘Not anymore.’ You used to be an airline pilot?”
    “Do you always ask so many questions?”
    “By my count, that’s only three.”
    “Five.” He ticked off on his fingers. “What kind of planes? 747s? Executives? Do I enjoy it? And did I used to be an airline pilot?”
    Melody rolled her eyes, but she laughed. “You must be fun at parties. Answer the question.”
    “I flew for a regional 121 operator out of Texas for a while . . . one of the smaller companies that code-shares with the majors.”
    “And you left because . . . “
    He shook his head, like he realized he wasn’t going to get out of the conversation. “The pay wasn’t great and the schedule sucked. I flew twenty-four days out of the month, which meant I usually stayed in hotels twenty of those. Now I work eighteen days a month for more money, and even though there’s a lot of waiting around for passengers, I actually get to fly instead of babysit autopilot.”
    “You seem pretty young to be a pilot.”
    “You seem pretty young to be a baker.”
    “How old should a baker be?”
    “I don’t know. But they shouldn’t be young and stunning.”
    Heat rose to Melody’s cheeks before she could control it. “Are you hitting on me?”
    “If I were trying to hit on you, you wouldn’t have to ask.” He caught her gaze, his expression dead serious. Just when she feared she wouldn’t be able to breathe again, his mouth widened into a grin.
    The flush eased when she realized he was just teasing her. “You’re terrible.”
    “I’m honest.” He hopped off the stool. “Is it okay if I get more coffee?”
    “Help yourself.” She let out a long exhale when he left the room. That guy was dangerous. He was gorgeous and he knew it. He had a sexy job and he knew it . . . even if he pretended to be blasè about it.
    Pretty much the sort of guy she was always attracted to and lived to regret. In fact, the more attracted to a man she was, the worse off she knew she’d be at the end when the relationship imploded like a popped soufflè.
    Judging from the little quivers she felt in his presence, a mere twenty minutes after their first meeting, this one was a heartbreaker.

Taken from Brunch at Bittersweet Cafè by Carla Laureano. Copyright © 2019.
Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.