Title: Definitely, Maybe, Yours Author Name & Publisher: Lissa Reed (Interlude Press) Publication Date & Length: August 11, 2015 - 296 pgs
Seattle-based baker Craig Oliver leads a life that is happily routine: baking cupcakes for an enormous family reunion, managing Sucre Coeur for its frequently absent owner, and closing out his day with a pint at the local pub. He has a kind heart, a knack for pastry, and a weakness for damaged people.
Habitual playboy Alex Scheff is looking to drown his sorrows, but instead discovers that he may have a weakness for Englishmen who carry cookies in their pockets. Can a seemingly incompatible pair find the recipe for love in a relationship they claim is casual?
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With a wink, Craig pulls a ten-dollar bill out of his left coat pocket and a carefully bagged almond and raspberry-lemon croissant, Katie's all-time favorite baked good, out of the right. He passes them across the bar as if he's James Bond—a very cheeky and cheery sort of 007. “You know I'll always look out for you. Keep the change.”
Katie squeals and flops across the bar to squeeze him breathless, and her ponytail slaps him in the nose. She bounces off with her treat in hand and Craig shakes his head and pulls long black and red hairs from his face, as he does every time this happens. Katie really is his favorite bartender at The Order of the Garter, hell, his favorite bartender in Seattle and maybe even the world. Much too good to be working at a grotty little pub, fending off unsavory advances and spilled drinks four nights a week; that's why Craig will bring her any bakery treat she wants, anytime she wants it, until she finally wises up and gets the hell out of this place.
Time for another sip of this excellent, excellent stout: Craig reaches forward. It's a good Thursday.
Of course, that's when it takes quite the sharp turn, leaving every Seattle-pub-Thursday Craig's ever known in the dust.
“Well, aren't you a hit with the ladies,” comes a surly drawl from his left, startling Craig just as he's got his fingers around his glass. “Was that a croissant in your pocket, or were you actually happy to see her?”
“Both,” Craig replies, shifting around to lean on his elbow and survey the formerly silent pile of misery hunched over two stools down, the limp guy at the end of the bar Craig had spotted on his way in. He is not unconscious after all, much to Craig's surprise; judging by the row of empty shot glasses upside down in front of him and the distinct aroma of tequila emanating a good four-foot radius from his person, he should be. Craig winces and turns away as the fumes burn his nose.
“Baked goods. That's a new one. Never saw anyone use baking to hit on the ladies before.” Mr. Misery sways his head upright, pushes a wild flop of brown hair out of his eyes and swings around until he locates Craig. He blinks. “Does it work?”
Surprised by the color of the eyes meeting his—an unusual shade, gray, not blue-gray or blue, but the gray of a sky covered in early storm clouds—Craig answers without thinking. “I wouldn't know. I don't hit on girls. Katie's my friend, not my type.”