His gaze moves from the penis cookie two inches from his face to me. He looks like he’s plotting my murder. I can completely understand why. These ladies are already halfway to rowdy drunk. They’re all on some ridiculous pre-wedding keto diet—which died a sad, necessary death once I told them the cookie calories don’t count tonight—and they’ve been sipping martinis for the past two hours. They’ll fit in perfectly next door.

“Ooooh! You own The Knight Cap?” Stephanie puts her hand on his forearm, leaving icing smears on his tattooed skin. She’s definitely on the prowl based on the way she’s eyeing Ronan’s crotch the same way he eyes my cupcakes.

Ronan either chooses to ignore her or maybe he’s too busy giving me the death glare and missed her simpering question. She strokes his forearm, rubbing in the icing. I’m sure it’s sticking to his arm hair.

“He does, don’t you, Ronan?”

“I don’t actually own it, I just run it. It’s my grandfather’s—”

“Oh, wow, isn’t that sweet? You work with your grandpa? I love guys who are close to their families. I’m close to my family, too.” Stephanie is still petting his arm. Still holding her penis cookie up in the air, as if she’s waiting for Ronan to praise her efforts.

The rest of the women are watching the one-sided exchange with something between fascination and mortification. Mostly it’s fascination, though.

The woman on Stephanie’s right snorts. “You haven’t talked to your mom in three years.”

“I’m close with the rest of my family, though,” she snaps, sending a rage glare at the other woman. I think her name might be Laura or Laurie. Stephanie returns her attention to Ronan. “I’m close with everyone else. Even my stepmother.”

“Well that’s…nice.” He takes a deliberate step back, away from her petting and the phallic cookie. “You ladies enjoy the cookie decorating.” He makes a move toward the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I call out.

“Huh?” His gaze shifts to me.

I hold up the small box I set aside for him. It contains two cupcakes. They’re themed for tonight’s bachelorette party. Although I decorated these especially for Ronan, as I always do.

“Oh, right.”

He rushes over and tries to grab the box from my hands, but I maintain my protective hold on it, smiling serenely. “Don’t you want to know what kind they are?”

“I’m sure I’ll love them.”

“Me, too, but you should sample one, don’t you think?” I bat my lashes and smile wider. “These ladies have yet to try the cupcakes. I’m sure they want your seal of approval, don’t you?”

A chorus of “Yes!” comes from the table, followed by some additional hoots, hollers, and taunts. You’d think we were at a strip club, not a freaking cupcake cocktail café.

Ronan narrows his eyes.

“You heard them. You don’t want to disappoint the bride-to-be.” I flip the lid open and his eyes flare and meet mine.

For the first time, Ronan is less than 100 percent composed. In fact, his cheeks have turned a lovely shade of pink. “You gotta be shitting me.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“They look real, don’t they?”

“Ooooh! What are they? Can we see?” Stephanie claps her hands together excitedly. I should probably hydrate this group before I send them next door.

“Why don’t you show them, Ronan?” I hold my smile.

“No way.”

I go for the cupcake on the left.

“Hell no.” Ronan smacks the back of my hand and his eyes dart to the women. “I’m not eating that in front of them.”

That little smack seems to reverberate through my entire body, pinging around like a marble in places that haven’t had attention in a long time. Ironic considering the design on the cupcake I’m about to make him eat in front of these women. “So this one, then?” I lift it from the box and turn it so it’s facing the right way for him.

“I’m going to get you back for this.” His tone is low and dark: equal parts threat and promise.

“Totally worth it.” I nod to the cake perched in my open palm.

He grudgingly takes it.

The women have abandoned the table and their cookies to gather around the spectacle that Ronan has become. Because he’s holding a vagina cupcake. The other option is, of course, the male anatomy. Both are convincing in their authenticity.

“Eat it, Ronan!” Stephanie shouts. The rest of the bachelorette party join in and chant his name.

His ears are red, his glare tells me he’s so freaking pissed off, but he’s also aware that these ladies are going to come over to his bar and drop stupid amounts of money on shots and girlie drinks as soon as they’re done here. Customers are worth more than his pride in this moment. Also, Ronan has proven that he isn’t the kind of man who backs down from a challenge, and for some reason I hate him a tiny bit less because of it. For now.

I covertly slip my hand in my pocket, searching for my phone as he peels the Bride-to-Be wrapper from the cake. Thankfully, Ronan is sufficiently distracted by Stephanie, who’s snaked her arm around his waist and is screaming his name like she’s the one about to get eaten.

I manage to pull up the camera app, switch it to video mode, and hit Record before he fully unwraps the cake. He holds my gaze as he brings it to his mouth, opening wide. I lift the phone, making sure I catch him when he takes a robust, rather sensual bite.

And all the while his eyes tell me he wants to mash the cupcake in my face. But he doesn’t. Instead he puts on a show. I’m hashtagging this cupcake porn. Because that’s 100 percent what it is, literally and figuratively. Even the bite placement is purposeful, and so is his groan when the flavors hit his tongue. The sweetness of vanilla cake, the hint of cocoa in the thin layer of icing before the light buttercream registers and then there’s the vanilla custard center, because come on, I’m nothing if not detail oriented.

He obviously doesn’t expect the filling, which of course is the point. Custard dribbles down his chin, but he’s so busy glaring at me while I record this epic moment that he doesn’t notice.

I can’t resist the opportunity. I bite my lip, fighting my own smile. “Oh! You’re making a mess, Ronan. Here, let me help.” I make sure the video is still rolling and I catch the dribble before it drips off his chin.

Before I can pull my hand away, he wraps his fingers around my wrist. There have been very few instances in which Ronan has made intentional, prolonged physical contact with me. The most body-to-body contact we’ve had to date was when he picked me up and removed me from behind his bar. After the fact, I can admit that he was right in that situation and I was not. Did he really need to fireman-carry me out from behind the bar? Probably not. Have I thought about all that physical contact countless times since then? Not at all. Okay, maybe a few. Hundred times.

So when he yanks me forward by my wrist I stumble and my hips meet the counter. I have to remember to keep the phone trained on his face when he bites my finger at the first knuckle. And I have to swallow down the gasp when his tongue swirls around my finger, cleaning off the custard.