Having a baby in a bakery gives new meaning to taking the bun out of the oven. I'd been in Curmudgeon Bakery for one of those lemon baby-Bundt cakes I'd been craving since I found out I was pregnant. The draw had nothing to do with the baker himself. Tall, tatted, and edgy, looking more like a biker than a man who makes baked goods. I hardly knew him other than taking a tumble in a rainstorm in front of his shop . . . and then tossing myself at him after he rescued me. We shared a moment but it's not what you'd think. Months later, he delivered my baby among his cookies and cakes. . Then he whips up a plan to pretend to be my baby's father, and everything heats up from there. My body. My heart. My willingness to accept a perfect stranger's kindness despite him telling me over and over he isn't who I think he is. I beg to differ. He's that sugary drizzle on a citrus-flavored, guilty pleasure that's bad for the hips, but together-him, and me, and baby-we're the perfect blend of ingredients that might do all our hearts some good.