“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.
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.”