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
