Virgin Daiquiri (Love After Midnight Book 2)

by Elise Faber

  “Do Colin!” another woman in the group interjected.

  They began cackling, continuing to tease the first woman, so I couldn’t hear what Anabelle said in response to Kace.

  But I did see her reach for a cookie.

  They couldn’t fix everything, but apparently, they could help people look beyond my strangeness.

  I’d chalk that up to success.

  Mostly because I didn’t have anything else going for me.

  Two more days went by.

  Two days of me showing up at the bar with baked goods—cinnamon rolls and chocolate custard hand pies.

  Two more days of no Brent in sight.

  At least I was able to play off my disappointment when I strode into the back room, determined that this time I would make good on my apology. That this time I would see him and make things right.

  But he wasn’t there.

  Though each time, Anabelle was, and it turned out, I was right. She was confident. And funny, with a quick wit that I couldn’t begin to match, but one that somehow didn’t make me feel dumb.

  Instead, she mostly had me laughing like a loon.

  Which was a good thing, because I was feeling more guilty and miserable as the week went on. I knew Brent had the next two nights off, and because I didn’t know where he lived but had been pretending, in the most oblique terms possible, that everything was fine between us, I couldn’t exactly ask Kace for his address.

  Kace probably couldn’t give it to me anyway.

  Employer-employee confidentiality. Was that even a thing?

  “And then I told him that just because I’m Filipino doesn’t mean I’m the resident expert on all things Asian,” Anabella was saying, drawing my focus back to where it should be. On her and the conversation we were having during one of her spare moments.

  “I thought all Asian countries were the same,” I deadpanned.

  Then panicked, thinking she hadn’t gotten the fact that I was deadpanning and—

  She chuckled and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I like you, Iris. Even if you’ve never tasted Halo-halo before.”

  I grinned. “You promised to remedy that for me soon.”

  “And so I shall,” Anabelle said, pushing off the bar and turning in the direction of a customer. “For a price.”

  “I’ll make good on my end,” I told her with a wave. I needed to go anyway, to keep up my charade of Everything Is Fine in Brent and Iris World.

  But I didn’t think my acting was very good. Kace was studying me closely, eyes unreadable, although the concern in his expression was easily discernible. I had two schools of thought on this matter. One, I’d be able to fix things with Brent, enough to convince everyone that we’d parted sort of amicably and I could occasionally spend my nights at Bobby’s, slowly sipping on a glass of wine, laughing with Anabelle and with Brooke, when she wasn’t on deadline.

  Two, I’d never be able to fix it.

  And Bobby’s would be off the table.

  I didn’t want it off the table. I really liked being there, liked the atmosphere, the people, and how the space somehow felt like home, even when it was filled with strangers. It rounded out my existence since I’d moved, gave me another place that I could belong.

  I really hoped I could find a way to keep it.

  “Iris?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, saw Kace had come up behind me.

  “You good?”

  “Great!” I chirped. “I just need to go . . . check on—”

  “Brent?”

  His tone told me he knew that wasn’t true.

  “Actually, no,” I said. “I have dough rising at my kitchen for croissants. I need to put it in the fridge so it’s ready for the morning.”

  That was true.

  Although, it wasn’t true that I had to do it strictly at that moment.

  Still, Kace seemed to believe me because he just nodded, though those eyes stayed unreadable. “See you soon,” he said. “Make sure you stop by in the next couple of days. I think Brooke will actually be done with her book and will be able to talk about whatever it is that put that look on your face.”

  “What?”

  He tugged a strand of my hair. “Something’s up. I won’t push.” A beat. “Unless you want me to?”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay. Talking with Brooke then.”

  I forced a smile. “Talking. With Brooke. Sounds great.” I took a step toward the door. “I’ll bring the baked goods.”

  “Don’t need to buy friendship, sweetheart,” Kace said then smiled. “But not saying they won’t be devoured all the same.”

  “Right.”

  I nodded, tried not to think too hard about his words, at risk of crying, and fled.

  It was two in the morning.

  I’d spent the evening being miserable and generally feeling sorry for myself. But now it was my witching hour, the time I always seemed to find myself awake, ruminating on everything I’d done wrong.

  Tonight, I just couldn’t do any more of that.

  So, I pushed out of bed, slipped on my second oldest sweatshirt, and went down to my kitchen. I was going to make the hardest thing I could think of—my special-occasion-only, extremely-expensive-albeit-very-delicious nine-layer-cake.

  Alternating layers of delicate chocolate sponge, each sandwiching four different fillings—ganache, homemade raspberry jam, crispy dark chocolate cookies and praline (both homemade then pulverized and stirred into a white chocolate mousse), and Bavarian cream whipped by hand, respectively.

  It was riddled with technique-heavy ingredients and would take concentration.

  So much so that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.

  Done. Good plan. Work your brain into submission.

  “I’m trying,” I muttered, stumbling into the kitchen and flicking on the lights, blinking for a moment against the brightness before I headed to my baking cabinet and began extracting the pans I’d need. And for the next forty-five minutes, I was distracted by the recipe. I’d gotten my ingredients out. I’d measured and prepped. I’d whipped up the batter for the sponge cake.

  It was working. Sort of. Because if I could just keep my hands busy, my mind on the list of tasks ahead, I’d be okay, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking ashamed anymore.

  “Shit,” I muttered, deliberately grabbing the carton of raspberries.

  I’d just dumped them into the saucepan, along with sugar, water, and lemon zest when there was a knock at my door.

  My first inclination was to be terrified that someone was knocking at my door at three in the morning.

  My next was hope.

  That it was Brent. That Kace had talked to him and—

  I ran to the door, whipped it open, and found . . . Brooke.

  “Oh,” I said, my disappointment obvious. “It’s you.” I clamped a hand over my mouth, realizing how it sounded. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”

  “I’m not the three a.m. visitor you wanted,” Brooke said, matter-of-factly. “If I had Brent showing up at my doorstep on the regular, I’d be disappointed in me, too.”

  I stepped back so she could come in. “What are you doing here?”

  She paused in my entryway.

  More hand clamping, more realizing I still sounded like a jerk. “Not that it’s not good to see you,” I quickly added, the words slightly muffled from my fingers, “but . . .”

  “It’s three in the morning, and I’m showing up unannounced at your door?” Brooke asked.

  Yeah. That.

  She smiled, seeming to hear my unspoken answer.

  “Kace and I were driving home from the bar. Brent had mentioned you lived in this house a bit ago, and we saw the light was on.” A shrug. “I told Kace to drop me off and head home, though he decided to wait in the car.”

  I glanced behind me, finally noticing the car in the driveway, Kace’s form visible behind the wheel, or at least his face and hands via the screen of his cell.

  “I w
on’t take up too much of your time—”

  The buzzer went, and I jolted. “I need to check on my—”

  “Go,” Brooke told me. “I’ll grab the door.”

  With a nod, I hustled into the kitchen, stopped the timer, and pulled out the critical ingredient in my nine-layer cake.

  The sponge was perfectly baked. Then I checked the pan I’d dumped the jam ingredients into. It was simmering away happily.

  Phew.

  But also simmering happily was Brooke.

  I turned, blurted, “Want something to eat?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Do you have any more of those snickerdoodles? Kace only saved me one, and I finished the sequel to Jace’s book tonight.”

  “So clearly, you need something to celebrate,” I said, pulling out my secret stash of cookies, because even though I liked to fit into my clothes, I liked sugary carbs even more. “When am I going to read it?” I asked when I’d grabbed us both mugs of milk and the cookies.

  “The release date is later this year,” she said, then did some blurting of her own, “So, want to tell me why both you and Brent are doing the self-punishment thing?”

  I’d just bit into a cookie and nearly choked at her question.

  “Um, what?” I asked when I’d managed to stop choking.

  “I know I’ve been in the writing world this week, but I haven’t missed the fact that you’ve been in the bar every night with goodies and that you’re disappointed when Brent isn’t there.”

  “I—”

  “Further that,” she said, talking right over me. “The stubborn man refused to let me or Kace check on him, which tells me that his back is actually bothering him, but since you’re not blushing and didn’t look remotely sexually satisfied when you came into the bar on Monday, I’d say that it didn’t occur in some strange bedroom accident that I definitely would want to write into a book.”

  She paused to suck in a breath, and that break in her words would have been the perfect moment to tell her she was overstepping and to back off.

  Instead, what came out when I opened my mouth was, “I was sexually satisfied.” Because the orgasm that Brent had given me was fucking incredible.

  Silence. Then, “Ah.”

  “It was just everything that came after it that was the problem.”

  “He panicked? Or you?”

  “I was a jerk.”

  “Him,” she said, almost to herself.

  “No,” I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “He confided in me, and I didn’t handle it with the sensitivity I should have, and—” Fuck, now my eyes burned. “He ran off, and I’ve been calling him and trying to catch him so I could apologize and—” I broke off, swallowing hard.

  “You blew it,” Brooke murmured. “But you want to make it right.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “How much did you blow it?”

  “I nuked it,” I admitted.

  “Well,” she said. “And here I thought I had it all figured out. I thought he’d panicked because he hasn’t cared about anyone in a long time, not since—” She broke off.

  I met her eyes. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  She smiled sadly. “Thank you.” But then she inhaled and exhaled, and the sadness left her face. “I miss Hayden every day. I do. But I’m also at a point where I can remember the good times instead of feeling like my insides were sliced open when the memories pop up.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just squeezed her hand lightly again.

  “Brent isn’t there yet,” she murmured. “Which is why I thought what I did about the self-punishment thing. He still thinks he’s responsible, just like I think you’re still blaming yourself about your ex . . . at least, that’s what my nosy self thinks.”

  I wanted to deny it, but Brooke wasn’t wrong. “I feel like an idiot for not having seen the signs.”

  “I get that.”

  “But that and what happened with Brent are two separate things. I really messed up with him. I deserved to be punished.”

  “Punished how?” she asked carefully.

  My breathing sped up at the quiet question, at the storm of emotions that had been brewing inside me for the last week, and finally, I couldn’t keep it all in. “I deserve to be hurt because I hurt Brent. I deserve to have you and Kace be mad at me.” I shook my head and dropped my eyes to the table. “I don’t deserve a decent man in my life. I don’t deserve to have all the goodness of Bobby’s or the friendship we’re building. I don’t deserve advanced copies or a successful business or—”

  I broke off as a tear slid down my cheek.

  Brooke didn’t say anything for a long moment.

  Then, though her words were quiet, they still tore through me. “Is that really you talking? Or is that some bullshit your ex planted in your head to make you think you’re unworthy?”

  “I—”

  I faltered when the reality settled in.

  Because I didn’t know.

  Was it me? Or was it left over from Frank?

  And I really, really needed to know the answer to that question before I could expect to move forward in my life.

  The timer I’d set for the jam dinged, and I jumped up, Brooke following suit.

  “I know I’ve already butted into your life,” she said, trailing me to the stove as I stirred the jam then transferred it into another container so it could cool quickly. “I know I’ve overstepped when we’ve just started being friends.” A brush of her hand down my arm. “And I also know that while I definitely have night owl tendencies, I don’t think you always do.”

  I didn’t.

  I was only up at this hour when I was unsettled.

  When I’d worried about my business. After I’d found out about Frank. And now . . . because of Brent.

  Brooke kept talking. “So, while I’m glad I checked on you and saw you were okay. I won’t keep butting in,” she said softly. “Just know that your ticket into my life, our friendship, isn’t dependent on Brent. I love the man. He’s as much of my brother as Hayden was.” She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “But you, sweetie, you’re great. All on your own. And I’m looking forward to knowing more of that greatness over many, many years of friendship. Brent, present or not.” A beat. “Okay?”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Brooke.”

  She hugged me. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Another nod.

  “Oh, Iris?” she asked from behind me.

  “Yeah?” I was very deliberately spreading out the jam, trying not to feel rocked to the core but feeling that way anyway.

  “My number is on the table.”

  I turned to see a piece of paper on the wooden top.

  “And maybe something else you might find useful.”

  My brows drew down.

  “Funny story,” she said, smiling brightly at me. “Brent lives just three streets over.”

  I bit my lip. “Oh.”

  She took another step toward the front door. “And Iris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wouldn’t mind being your taste-tester,” she said. “Just in case the job opportunity comes up.”

  I smiled. “Is that your way of asking for a slice of my nine-layer cake?”

  Brooke tapped her nose. “Got it in one.” A pause. “Get some rest, sweetie. But before you do, make sure you program my number into your cell. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to my number. Like the note getting lost or ruined or eaten by a squirrel or something.”

  I frowned at the sudden firmness of her tone.

  “Okay?” she pressed.

  I nodded, opening my mouth to ask about her obsession with me having her number when I lived two blocks away from where she spent nearly every night, but by then Brooke was already gone, leaving me holding the spoon and the dish holding the jam, and a bright white square of paper on my table.

  I dropped the spoon in the sink, the jam in the freezer, then I walked over to the note.
r />   My heart squeezed.

  Because below her number was an address.

  One that was exactly three streets over.

  “Oh, Brooke,” I said. “I really am lucky to call you a friend.”

  Almost as if she were answering that statement with an affirmation, I heard the front door slam, and a few seconds later, a car engine start up in my driveway.

  Nine-layer cake.

  Then I was taking a walk.

  Eleven

  Brent

  “You have a lot of nerve, Brent Collins!”

  I’d answered my door without looking, thinking it was the pizza I’d DoorDashed at three in the morning from the twenty-four-hour place for about ten times the cost of what a pizza during normal business hours would be.

  Brooke stood on my porch, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing in anger.

  “It’s three in the morning—” I began.

  “I don’t care what time of day it is,” she said, barging by me, her long red ponytail swinging as she went. My gaze drifted past her, to the SUV parked in the driveway. Kace lifted a hand but didn’t move to corral his woman.

  Then again, Brooke wasn’t exactly corral-able when she was in a mood like this.

  And no, I definitely would not be saying that aloud.

  “What right do you have to put that lovely woman through torment for a week? She feels terrible and has been beating herself up—”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  Brooke talked right over me. “She hasn’t been sleeping. She’s been in the bar every night this week, bringing desserts for the staff, but any dumbass can see that she’s looking for your dumbass, and you haven’t come—”

  “My back—”

  “No!” she snapped. “I don’t doubt that you hurt your back, but you know what doesn’t hurt it? Speakerphone.” She tossed her hands up. “Or voice text. Or fucking FaceTime!”

  “Iris deserves better!” I shouted.

  Brooke froze, teeth clicking together.

  “She fucking deserves better,” I said. “So, maybe I should have called or texted or fucking FaceTimed, but it was better that things ended now. Better for her to find out what kind of man I am now.”