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—well, 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
