I laugh. “Kwe what?” He leans from one hip to the other, sauntering over to my side and placing a palm around my lower back. “It’s a French pastry. A pastry that is”—he leans in on an exhausted exhale—“incredibly difficult to make. With many layers. A lot like you.” “I’m difficult to make?” “You’re difficult. In the best of ways.” I smile. “Well, it’s my favorite,” I announce, dropping the last bite into my mouth. His eyes pinch closed as he grins. “God, that’s so hot. Say it again.”
