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.
Fucking. 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.
It had caused so much damage.
And for what?
Brent placed one hand on the back of my neck. “It seems like some pieces are coming together in your mind, darlin’, so I’ll just say this.” He paused, waited for my eyes to come back to his. The intensity still there, the anger gone. Because this time, it was tempered with respect. “Frank was a fucking idiot to have let you go.”
“I’m not perfect,” I said, slipping my hands free of his still resting against his chest. I slid one to his shoulder, leaned in. “But I’m starting to see that you’re right. Frank was a fucking idiot.”
Brent unleashed his smile.
My panties got wet.
I leaned in, hesitated.
“You gonna kiss me?” he murmured. “Or do I have to go and find some mistletoe?”
I closed the distance between us, and on the day after Christmas, Die Hard paused on TV, my body draped over the lap of a gorgeous, kind man who called me darlin’ and kissed me like I was the most precious woman in the universe, I thought that perhaps meeting Brent had changed everything.
Because it felt like my life would never be the same.
Then his tongue slipped between my lips, his hands shifted, and he pulled me more snugly against his hips, and I lost track of time.
So much so that I forgot all about the pizza dough in the oven.
An hour later, I stared into the oven, to the bowl overflowing with the severely over-proofed pizza dough, and groaned.
“It’s ruined.”
Brent was leaning a hip against the counter, arms crossed, face nonplussed. “Is this one of those cherry pie ruined scenarios, or is it really ruined?”
Sighing, I grabbed the bowl and dumped its contents into the trash. “Ruined ruined,” I muttered, glaring at him. “You’re not allowed to come within a hundred yards of my commercial kitchen. You’re too distracting.”
He just grinned.
I pulled out my phone, opened DoorDash. “Your choice. My treat.”
He pulled out his cell. “How about your choice, and it’s my treat.”
I sighed. “Brent.”
He smiled wider. “Iris.”
“I ruined dinner,” I said, plunking my hands onto my hips. “I should pay.”
A step closer, his scent drifting over me. “We ruined dinner,” he said, fingers drifting up my arm, slipping behind my neck, and weaving into my hair. “But you bought supplies for both, so I’m paying.”
“Frank never argued with me about paying.”
“I think it’s already been established that Frank is an asshole,”
