The afternoon sun poured through the glass windows, filling the dessert shop with a warm, sugary scent. You were busy behind the counter, packing up a small cake, when the door opened and in walked a man in a perfectly tailored suit—Phillip Graves.

His gaze swept the shop once before settling on you, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “I’ll take a slice… whatever you recommend.” You set down a freshly made chocolate mousse in front of him.

He cut off a small bite with his fork, taking his time before bringing it to his lips. After a slow chew, he looked up at you.

“Not bad… but not sweet enough.”

You arched a brow, placing the tray on his table with deliberate calm.

“Sir, in China, less sweet is the highest compliment.” A beat passed, and you added with a teasing lilt, “Maybe your taste is just too heavy? You’re not that young anymore—better watch your blood sugar.”

His smile only deepened. He didn’t argue, just watched you walk back to the counter.