“Mom gave me this when I picked up the keys to the cabin this morning,” he says. “She claims it’s not midsummer without strawberry cake.”
“She’s not wrong. It looks delicious.”
“Wait until you taste it. It’s so much strawberry you can’t believe it. She’s layered it with this delicious strawberry curd she makes herself. There’s also something minty and something tart to temper all the sweetness, and oh, my God, it so gooood.” The final word turns into a moan. The sound settles low in my hips and I squirm, shifting my weight from foot to foot, forcing myself to stay put and not jump him.
When the coffee is done, he strains it into our cups, then splits the cake into two pieces and puts it on small plates matching the cups. “Do you wanna eat on the porch?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
We carry
