“Men who are going to cheat, cheat,” he said. “Nothing you did or didn’t do would have changed that. But a real man would have talked through his problems with you about your relationship rather than do that sneaking around bullshit.”
My nose stayed wrinkled. “It’s not fair that you’re funny, kind, gorgeous, and smart.”
He grinned. “I’m not sure about any of that, but I’ll take the compliment.”
I dropped the fake consternation and touched his jaw. “Good. I mean it. And . . . thanks for taking a leap in coming over yesterday, then weeding through the Christmas crazy and the pie meltdown to hang out. It’s nice to make a new friend.”
“Why is that phrased like a kiss-off when we have two large pizzas coming?”
My jaw fell open. “Two large pizzas? How are we going to eat that much?”
“I think you forget that I saw you go to town on carbs last night. It’s not a matter of how we’re going to eat the two large pies, but whether two large pies is enough to fill that hollow leg”—he patted my thigh, and yes, my pussy flared to attention at having his hand so close to that particular body part—“of yours.”
I was concentrating so fiercely on the space between my thighs that it took me a moment to process what he’d said.
Brent laughed at my glare and kissed the top of my nose. “Also, just to be clear, I’m not here to make a friend.” A heavy moment as he held my gaze, waited for his words to sink in. And they did, though they were paired with no small amount of disbelief. “I like you, darlin’. More than any woman I’ve met in the last few years, and more than anyone I’ve met maybe ever. You’re smart and beautiful and funny, and it’s no trial to walk a few blocks to hang out with you.” Another light brush of his mouth, this time on my forehead. “Even if you do have an insane number of nutcrackers collecting dust on that mantle.”
“Collecting dust?” I gasped. “I just wiped everything—”
He kissed me, thoroughly, intently, long enough to have my lungs burning from a lack of oxygen. Then he released me and cuddled me into his side. “Two pizzas. That’s enough.” He picked up the remote, pressed play. “Especially because I know you made a fresh pumpkin pie.”
I had, so I didn’t argue.
I’d also whipped up some fresh cream, adding a dash of cinnamon, because I was going wild and really living my best life now. But I didn’t tell Brent that. Instead, I cuddled closer, leaned my head on his shoulder, happy that he didn’t want a friend.
Because I didn’t want one either.
Or only one, anyway.
Then I kept my eyes glued on the screen and watched as John McClane’s tank top got progressively more stained.
The doorbell rang when duct tape joined the party.
Brent paused the movie, told me to stay put, then crossed to the front door to retrieve the pizzas.
I didn’t stay put.
I got plates and napkins, a refill of my wine, a fresh beer for him, and I returned to the family room just as he reached the table. Instead of getting huffy that I ignored him, like Frank would have done—well, it would have been me getting the plates and drinks, me going to the door and retrieving the pizzas because his ass would have stayed on the couch—but instead of being upset that I’d gotten up, he took the drinks from my hand then the plates and napkins, before brushing a kiss over my lips and nudging my butt onto the cushions.
Then he loaded a plate with two slices of pizza—one tandoori, one that was covered in a variety of vegetables and looked delicious—and handed it to me.
He was next to me on the couch a minute later, his own plate of pizza balanced on his lap, and when I reached for my wine, even though the movie was at its crescendo, he grabbed it and handed it to me.
It was strange and wonderful and . . . the teeniest bit unnerving, how in tune we seemed to be.
Because I knew when he wanted another slice, when he was reaching for his drink, and I didn’t think twice about handing it to him either, nor about the kiss I brushed on his cheek when he took my empty plate and set it on the table when he’d finished.
In sync.
I didn’t think I’d ever been so in sync with someone in my life.
And probably that should have taken unnerving and ramped it to freaked-the-fuck-out, but instead, it took unnerved and made it disappear, instead it allowed me to keep drinking my wine as Die Hard turned to Die Hard 2, then appreciate that he paused the sequel and did the dishes while I plated dessert.
Then it made me fall a little in love, when I woke up the next morning, tucked safely in bed, the blankets pulled up to my chin, and a note on the nightstand from Brent.
Hope you had sweet dreams, darlin’.
-B
P.S. I promise to keep two hundred yards from your kitchen, if you promise to come into the bar tonight. My shift starts at 7.
I got up, showered, and headed to my kitchen, fulfilling orders and packaging on my own, relieved that my staff would be back the following day.
But since I did have the space to myself, I took the opportunity to whip up something that wasn’t expressly available on my order form or online store, and I made sure to set a timer.
This time the pizza dough was absolutely perfectly risen.
And I didn’t think Brent would mind having pizza for dinner two nights in a row, because I knew my leftover-turkey-cranberry-stuffing-covered pie was the best one I’d ever made.
Definitely not charcoal.
Seven
Brent
Yeah, I could dig my girl walking into Bobby’s, smiling up at me like that every single day.
Especially when she carried a box, holding it up with a cat-ate-the-canary smile that made me want to kiss her right in front of everyone.
And I meant everyone.
The bar was packed. Brooke was in her corner, typing away in her own fictional world, various groups of regulars dotted around the space, taking up their typical tables and booths, but the rest of the customers weren’t regulars. Which was good for the bar’s and Kace’s, part-owner of the place, bottom line. But it wasn’t great for me having time to eat whatever deliciousness was percolating out of the box Iris had brought in nor finding the opportunity to kiss her luscious mouth, to taste her smirk on my tongue.
I nodded toward the end of the bar where Brooke was sitting, waiting until I saw her moving before I pulled out the stool I’d stashed behind the bar earlier, having purposely ignored Kace’s confused look.
I stuck it next to Brook’s stool.
“Brooke, meet Iris,” I said to my former best friend’s little sis when Iris came close. I knew she would be nice to Iris and knew they could both use more friends in their lives, especially ones who would look out for each other rather than be catty-backstabbers.
“Iris,” I said, brushing my knuckles over her cheek. “This is Brooke. She puts up with my grumpy ass . . .” I paused, smirked over at Kace, who’d come up. “friend, Kace.”
Kace narrowed his eyes.
“Kace, this is Iris. Iris, Kace. My grumpy, burly, tattooed boss.”
Kace rolled his eyes but extended a hand to Iris, who shifted her box to the side so she could shake it. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “What can I get you to drink?”