request
“Please just take the next pastry and leave… JUST LEAVE!”
You nearly slammed the tray down in frustration, cheeks flushed from the sheer audacity of him. Again. There he was—smug grin, sharp suit, and the glint of someone who knew exactly how to play the game—and he was playing you like it was his lucky deck.
He tilted his head, all amused arrogance and poker-faced charm. “Now, now, doll,” he drawled, voice slicker than the gloss on your display case. “You act like I don’t brighten the place up.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you could see last Tuesday. He was determined. Like, freakishly, alarmingly determined. You weren’t sure whether to file a complaint or start charging him rent.
He showed up at the bakery every day—without fail. Morning, noon, or closing shift, it didn’t matter. If your name was on the schedule, his shoes were tapping across the tile floor, his cologne already announcing his presence before the bell above the door could.
Worse still? He never even ate the pastries. He’d pick one—whatever you clearly hadn’t recommended—and then sit down at the corner table like he owned the place. Technically, he did own a casino, so maybe he just had that air of constant control, like the world was a roulette wheel and he always bet on the right color.
“I’m not leaving, darling,” he said, popping a coin between his fingers like a magician. “You’ll come around. Bet on it.”
You gritted your teeth, clutching a piping bag like it was your last defense. “This is a bakery. Not a stage for your creepy man-show.”
He leaned on the counter, lowering his sunglasses with maddening casualness. “You work with sweet things all day—how are you still so bitter?”
“Because you keep showing up.”
He didn’t blink. “Exactly.”
He was relentless. Unshakable. The kind of guy who probably waltzed into high-stakes poker games with nothing but a smirk and a lucky chip. And right now, it was clear—he thought you were the jackpot.
You slammed a box shut and shoved it toward him. “Here. One cream puff. Take it and go haunt someone else.”
He took the box without looking at it. “Oh, I’m not here for the cream puff. I’m here for you.”
You blinked.
He winked.
And you wanted to scream.
You stared at him, this walking casino ad with a soul patch of smugness and the confidence of someone who’d never once heard the word “no” and taken it seriously. He was the kind of man who probably kissed his dice goodnight and wore cologne called Jackpot.
“You’re insane,” you muttered, going back to icing cupcakes with the delicate rage of someone resisting the urge to throw the whole tray at him.
“And yet… you haven’t banned me,” he said, taking a bite of the cream puff like he actually enjoyed it this time. “Not once. Not even after I knocked over the espresso display. Or when I tried to play blackjack with those kids at table three.”
You glared. “That’s because I legally can’t. Not without a police report.”
He lit up like a man who’d just drawn a royal flush. “So you admit it. You want to.”
“I want to ban you. I want to ban your hat, your grin, your weird cigarillos that smell like cinnamon lies—”
“But you don’t,” he said smoothly, stepping a little closer across the counter. “Because deep down, you like me.”
“I like quiet shifts and no gamblers in tailored suits breathing over the danishes, thank you very much, so sit. Down. Charming." You spoke through gritted teeth.
You hated him.
Probably.
Maybe.
You really needed to check tomorrow’s shift schedule.