When Paisley and Sebastian, a rival florist and baker, are hired to collaborate on a wedding cake, they soon discover nothing's fair in love and family drama.
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Paisley DeGran...
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Paisley
"Holy hell in a handbasket," Shakita gasps. Her grip is tight enough to bruise my forearm. "Who is he?"
Already, I can tell who she's talking about. Only one man on campus can invoke such reactions from women. I glance at Sebastian King. My gaze trails over his thick onyx hair before it slips down to his strong cheekbones and blue eyes. I take a moment to realize he's staring at me, grinning. I can't stop myself from grinning back. I've known Sebastian for years. Within those years, I've never been able to figure out what makes him so likeable. But something tells me it's his smile.
"That's Sebastian King," I reply, tasting his name on my tongue. "The man I've been telling you about." My gaze stays locked with Sebastian's. After my lips have formed his name, he breaks eye contact and excuses himself from his friends.
Shakita grips my arm tighter—if that's possible. "Is he coming over here?" she whisper-yells, gaping at Sebastian. "Shit, Paisley, I think he's coming over here!"
I nudge my friend in the ribs, silently telling her to shut up. Though, I can't blame Shakita for freaking out. Sebastian has been the subject of many of our conversations. She knows about our secret exchanges. About the flowers I leave for him and the macarons he leaves for me.
When Sebastian stops in front of us, I swear Shakita is going to puncture my veins with her painted nails.
"Bonjour, Paisley." He smiles. His intense stare settles on me, moving over my body before he makes eye contact. The blue of his eyes is indigo, intense and volatile with its beauty. He runs a hand through his onyx hair, tugging before he drops his hand to his side. It's a self-conscious gesture that makes my stomach perform a set of flips. My gaze flicks from his hand back to his handsome face. He's still grinning at me, but sheepishly now. There's even a light dusting of blush across his chiselled cheeks.
"H-hey, Sebastian," I stutter. In an alternate universe, I'm rolling my eyes at myself. I'm acting ridiculous. As a twenty-year-old, I shouldn't ever be swooning over Sebastian. It's like I'm back to being a preteen girl who wears leggings with Ugg boots and swoons over Twilight.
I can't locate the connection between my brain and tongue. Part of me thinks his French-Canadian accent is to blame. The other part of me knows I'm rendered speechless because of our relationship. Despite the bad blood between our families, Sebastian and I have been friends for years. I know more about him than I care to admit. Sebastian is a pastry chef—one of the best in Québec. When he was nineteen, he received his culinary degree. That degree only soothed half of his passions, though, as he told me during one of our late night forbidden phone calls. He explained his passion for teaching the language; that despite his love for pastries and design, he doesn't want to be held back by his family's business. He wants to tutor English-speaking kids and show them just how fun French can be, but also nurture his talents.
The thought of our conversations over the summer sends a pleasurable chill down my spine. I'm breathless, almost shaking. There's something alluring about defying our parents' rivalry. Something alluring about walking to the edge of a cliff. When I'm around him, I want to succumb to the possibility of a forbidden romance.
