by Elise Faber
Silence.
For a long, critically embarrassing, horrifying moment.
Finally, Brent took a step toward me. “You think I’m beautiful?”
I sighed, chin dropping forward to rest on my chest. “That’s what you took from what I just said?”
He smiled. “You think I’m beautiful,” he repeated, without the question mark this time, taking another step closer.
I groaned.
His fingers, one slightly sticky from the cherry pie, cupped my jaw. “You really sold fifty-thousand pies last year?”
I nibbled at the corner of my mouth. “Unburned ones. Yes.”
He laughed and I swear, I felt that laughter enter my body, felt it fill my blood with champagne. God, he had an intoxicating laugh.
Sexy smile.
Hot as hell body.
That low, rasping chuckle that slid like honey down my spine.
“Sounds like I’m the one who’s out of my league, darlin’, seeing as I’m a lowly bartender and you’re the entrepreneur who’s sold fifty-thousand pies.”
I scoffed, waved a hand up and down my body. “Have you seen me?” I asked then pointed to him. “Have you seen you? Brent, you’re solid muscle and have a movie star face. I’m a nerdy, overweight female who samples her pies far too often and has an obsession with Christmas. You shouldn’t be here entertaining my invitation, not when you must have better things to do with your time, especially since—”
His mouth dropped to mine, lips slanting, tongue sliding home to tangle with mine, and in one heartbeat I went from thinking about all the reasons I was insane to have invited this man to my house when he should be spending the holiday with someone like Chrissy Teigen and not frumpy, flower-printed apron-wearing Iris Hannigan, to just . . . feeling.
Hot. Wet. Firm pressure. A coaxing tongue.
And desire. So much desire that it felt like lightning had struck in a drought-ridden forest, flames bursting to life, consuming the dry tinder in seconds.
My hands slid up his arms, wrapped around his biceps, clutching the granite-like muscles firmly as my body drifted forward, making contact with his, feeling his hard chest pressed against my soft breasts, getting so many different notes to the intoxicating scent of him—cinnamon and mint, sandalwood and . . . cherry.
I could smell the cherry on his mouth, could taste the cherry on his tongue.
He pulled back, still holding my jaw. “I didn’t accept your invitation out of pity,” he murmured. “I saw you at the bar, watched you out of the corner of my eye all night.” My breathing stalled. He kept talking. “Looking beautiful. Looking so fucking lovely that I kept mixing up my orders. But I knew, just knew that you were the wrong kind of pretty, the kind of pretty that is too good for an asshole like me.”
“Sounds like we both have confidence problems,” I said.
Another blurt.
Fucking hell, I needed to find a way to control my tongue.
I ducked, more embarrassment making my cheeks hot, making my eyes slide down to the floor.
But then he laughed.
Warm, bubbling laughter that filled the room, that filled me.
What the hell was happening?
But then I didn’t have time to process it because he stepped back, tugged at the tie of my apron and slipped it over my head. “You’re right,” he said, setting it on the counter. “Now darlin’, what’s for dinner?”
Five
Brent
Iris sat across from me at the table decorated with a trio of ceramic Christmas trees—the old-fashioned kind with the plastic lightbulbs that had to be pushed through the holes one-by-one—in the center of the dark oak. Silver garland interspersed with small glittery gold ornaments was woven in between them, drifting along the middle of the table to hang over either end.
But Iris amongst all the sparkle—the trees, the explosion of cheer shining in the room behind her—didn’t fade into the background.
She was the brightest.
Or maybe that was just because I was entranced.
Absolutely, completely taken aback by this woman who’d nearly cried over burnt pies, who’d told me—and herself—that I lacked confidence, then had nearly blushed herself into a sunburn before nodding once after I’d agreed with her, turning away, then spinning back and shoving a stack of plates, napkins, and utensils into my hands, ordering me to, “Set the table.”
Then she’d bustled around the kitchen, pulling out dishes and bringing them to the table, following that with serving spoons along with wine—for her—and beer—for me. And by the time she sat down, the flurry of movements encompassing the previous ten minutes, I’d almost needed to catch my breath.
Almost.
Because I wasn’t quite certain that the reason I was out of breath wasn’t because Iris looked absolutely radiant and adorable, especially with that streak of flour on her left cheek.
Dinner turned out to be a turkey casserole with mashed potatoes and dressing, grilled veggies, and sweet potatoes drizzled with honey, sprinkled with brown sugar, and crammed full of marshmallows.
She’d had me fix mine, added a dash of salt, then wrapped them both in foil and popped them into the oven, promising not to burn it.
She hadn’t broken that promise.
And it was, hands down, the most delicious thing I’d eaten. Ever.
Until I’d tried her chocolate pie.
That quickly usurped the accessorized sweet potatoes and became the best thing I’d ever put in my mouth.
Ever.
Once everything had been settled onto the table, she had dished up my plate without preamble and then had begun quizzing me on my favorite television shows and movies.
I admitted a fondness for The Office and Breaking Bad. She named something called Beauty and the Baker. We both had loved every Marvel movie and were eagerly awaiting Black Widow’s stand-alone film. Then we’d moved on to food—me, everything remotely edible because military base food really lowered culinary standards; her, everything under the sun that wasn’t charcoal.
She’d blushed again at that, though her eyes had danced as she poked fun at herself.
And I’d had to force myself to keep my seat.
So fucking pretty.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to brush the flour off her cheek, wanted to kiss those plump rosebud lips.
Instead, I asked her about baking.
She told me about her commercial kitchen around the corner, how nice it was to be able to spread out and store her supplies, how it had been a relief to have a wall of ovens and a separate part of the space to box the pies, how she’d been able to hire a couple of high school kids to help her package, but that she’d let them have this week off so they could enjoy their time off from classes.
She sparkled. She charmed. She blushed and said, “Oh my God, I’ve been rambling about myself for too freaking long. Tell me, how long have you worked at Bobby’s?”
And I knew then that even though I’d known this girl for all of a day, she was something special.
I told her I’d worked at Bobby’s for about a year, that I’d been honorably discharged from the military, that I’d been at a loss of what I wanted to do with my life now that my parents were gone, and I’d needed a fresh start.
Kace had given me that fresh start.
My burly, tattooed bartender friend—and yes, I had tats, too, also yes, I enjoyed calling him my burly, tattooed bartender friend—because it drove him absolutely crazy, and driving Kace crazy filled my days with some of that Christmas sparkle that had exploded in Iris’s house, except year-round. Still, we’d known each other for almost six years, both having served and our paths crossing at a wedding when I’d been discharged a little over a year ago. He’d offered me a gig. I’d taken it, and it worked. I was paying the bills while going back to school.
Because I was one of those cool twenty-nine-year-olds whose days were filled with textbooks and college co-eds.
I’d told Iris that—we
ll, not about the co-eds, but about going back to school as she’d served me up a slice of the most delicious chocolate pie I’d ever eaten. And I had a sweet tooth, so that was saying a lot.
“This is incredible,” I said, scooping up a giant bite and shoving it into my mouth.
I shouldn’t even be hungry, considering the amount of food I’d just consumed, the starch and carbs alone from the potatoes and stuffing should have sent my blood sugar skyrocketing before plummeting back down and sending me into a food coma. But when she also placed a bowl of cherry pie—sans crust, plus vanilla ice cream—in front of me, I didn’t turn that down either.
I just gave her my thanks, finished up my chocolate pie, and started in on the cherry. “Thanks for inviting me,” I said between bites. “This is way better than the frozen pizza I would have made myself.”
She gasped. “Frozen?” A shudder. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
I lifted a brow. “I’m not serious?”
Her own fork, midway through her much smaller slice of chocolate pie, hit the table. “It’s not hard to make your own dough. It’s like three ingredients, and you let it rise and—”
“Will you show me?”
Lips opened then closed then opened again. “Um, what?”
“Will you show me how to make my own dough?” Three ingredients seemed doable, but mainly, this also seemed like a good way to ensure that I got to see her again.
Her brows drew down. “Tonight?”
I scooped up a spoonful of cherries and cream. “No. I think I ate enough carbs that I’m almost at Defcon One of Pant-Splitting Stages.”
“Oh.” I liked to think that her expression held a twinge of disappointment. “Of course.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Iris’s gaze shot up. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said around bites. “The bar is closed tomorrow. I’m off school. I’d love to learn something new, especially if that something new involves pizza.”
“Oh.” Eyes back down, fork hovering over her pie.
“Oh what?” I asked, feeling some disappointment of my own. “Do you already have plans?”
She shook her head. “No, I just—” Another shake.
I reached across the table and covered her hand. “Just what?”
“I guess, I just thought I was blowing it, rattling on about baking, not tempering the Christmas crazy, almost crying about pies.” She shrugged. “I figured you’d be beating a hasty retreat and—”
“Confidence.”
Her expression turned confused. “What?”
“Remember that confidence thing we both need?” I asked, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Now seems like a good time for it.”
She nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “You’re right.” A nod. “Tomorrow night. Pizza dough.”
I lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “Cool, thanks, darlin’.”
Uncertainty drifted across blue-green eyes. “That is—”
“Uh-uh,” I said, flicking my tongue out. “No take-backs.”
She froze, face incredulous, but then I started grinning, and she started grinning, and then we were both laughing.
When we’d finished, I nudged her bowl in her direction and said, “Now eat up, your pants need to feel as tight as mine.”
More smiles. More laughter.
Then we settled in and finished our desserts.
Afterward, I forced her out of the kitchen to do the dishes, and later accepted a container of leftovers—because they were delicious and I’d work out extra hard if it meant I could keep eating them.
And when I left that night, I stole a kiss.
Because, look at that, she had mistletoe hanging over the front door, and I couldn’t let that go to waste.
Yeah. That Christmas explosion she’d made happen definitely had its perks.
Six
Iris
“That’s it,” I told Brent the next night. “Now, we just wait for it to double in size, roll it out, put the toppings on, and then bake it. Ten to fifteen minutes after that, we’ll have the best pizza you’ve ever tasted.”
I didn’t tell him that it was actually one of my traditions to make a turkey, cranberry sauce, and stuffing laden pie, combining all the best leftovers with even more carbs, nor did I tell him that no one had ever cared enough about what I cooked to ever want to learn part or all of the process. Not my friends, not my parents, not Frank.
It was probably a little sad that I was just now realizing how messed up that was.
Not that I’d expected them to hop in the kitchen with me. Or to push up their sleeves and join in when I’d been in the weeds, overwhelmed with orders and hopelessly behind—not every time anyway.
Occasionally would have been nice.
Even just offering to help would have been fine.
But they hadn’t and . . . I hadn’t thought to ask.
I’d put my head down, built up resentment that they hadn’t, and I’d gotten really good at thinking that all the problems in my life were because of everyone else.
That I hadn’t played any role in them.
I was realizing now that I’d done my part.
Ugh.
I didn’t want to think deep thoughts, to reevaluate my inner self. I wanted to enjoy my time with the beautiful man in my kitchen because who knew how long his interest would last.
There. Done. Moving on.
Except, when I glanced up, realizing that I’d been lost in my head for far too long for polite conversation, Brent was staring down at me, expression soft.
I sighed, dropped my eyes to the bowl in front of me, fussing with the plastic wrap, making sure it was secure so a skin wouldn’t form on the dough. He waited while I stashed the bowl in the oven that was set to “Proof” then took my hand and led me to the family room.
Christmas extravaganza was in a slightly diminished form. I began packing up items one box at a time after the holiday. This reduced the Christmas craze, but also extended it, because I ended up being able to keep my holly, jolly happy with me for a little bit longer.
Die Hard—the first and best, and also the best holiday movie of them all—was cued up to stream. The plan was for Brent and me to binge on caramel and regular popcorn, to thoroughly ruin our dinner, and then to make the pizzas and get even more stuffed.
I’d spent the day looking forward to seeing him, counting the minutes down in a way that should have been scary but was somehow not.
Because it was easy.
Because I could talk to him, could say whatever thought crossed through my mind, and I knew he’d just roll with it.
And I’d showed plenty of crazy.
Not, least of which, was this moment.
“You ponder it out?” he asked gently.
“I don’t know if I pondered it all out,” I admitted. “But I did realize, unfortunately, that I played a role in everything that happened.”
Picking up the remote, I went to start the movie, but he snagged it from my fingers and set it next to his thigh. “Nope.” A shake of his head. “What put that sad look in your eyes, darlin’?”
“It’s nothing,” I muttered, reaching for the controller. “And way too heavy for a chill hangout night.”
“Iris.”
“Plus, we don’t know each other. I’ve already given you way too many blurts for the forty-eight hours of our acquaintance. In fact, I think I’m at my blurt limit.” I lunged for the remote, but he caught my hands against his chest. “You definitely don’t need to know that my high school boyfriend, who was also my college boyfriend, and then my after-college fiancé was screwing around on me. Or that the girls he was sleeping with were my friends. Or that I just realized that not one of those friends or Frank had ever shown any interest in learning a recipe or helping out when I was swamped with orders. Or—”
I clamped my lips shut, ending the blurt of all blurts. The blurt that decimated every single blurt limit.
Fucki
ng. Hell.
I dropped my gaze, not able to hold the warm amber of Brent’s eyes, not wanting to see the realization in them of my crazy . . . or worse, pity. He wore a fitted blue T-shirt, and it popped against the russet of his skin, highlighted the tattoos inked into his arm.
Tattoos I wanted to know the meaning of.
Tattoos I wanted to trace with my tongue.
Tattoos—
He wasn’t saying anything.
Like he had clammed up, a heavy and oppressive silence filling the space between us.
Double. Fucking. Hell.
But . . . he also didn’t let me go. His hands covered mine on his chest, hot and a little rough. Callouses from someone who was active, who did honest work. Callouses similar to mine from all the whisking and stirring I did on a daily basis. Callouses—
Shit. More silence. Even heavier, although I felt a trace of impatience along with it.
His words, when he finally spoke, told me why. “Look at me, darlin’.” Not gentle or soft, but a command. I followed it, forcing my stare from the stitching on the collar of his shirt up to his eyes. “Your fiancé?”
I nibbled at the corner of my mouth. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”
“Iris.” His eyes narrowed, that amber heating, but not in a good way or a sexy way—okay, it was both—but the point was, his eyes weren’t increasing in temperature because he was turned on. They were sparking with frustration.
I didn’t want him frustrated with me.
I also didn’t want to lie to myself any longer.
And . . . why the fuck shouldn’t I tell the truth? Yes, I was beginning to take responsibility for the fact that I wasn’t perfect in my relationship, but Frank had cheated. Repeatedly. And my friends had been complicit in that behavior. Further that, if he’d had a problem, he should have come to me and addressed the problem.
It would have hurt for him to break up with me.
But it had hurt a lot more to have the breadth of his deception crash into me like a tsunami taking out houses on the coast—knocking into them, crushing them to pieces, washing them inland before stealing them out to sea.
