He narrows his eyes, huffing. “I’m only doing this so you’ll stop asking.”
I laugh, loving that he’s bending. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
He heaves a sigh, like this is too much. He plucks the chocolate from my palm, pops it into his mouth, and chews.
Anxiously I wait. For a few seconds, he says little. But when he murmurs and moans, I nearly bounce. “Good, right?”
“Fine, this is fucking awesome. Can we eat the whole bar now?”
I wag a finger, smiling like I told him so. Because I did. “This is what happens when you’ve only ever tried Hershey’s. You needed the good stuff. And now you’ve had it.”
“Guess I can’t go back now,” he says with an easy shrug.
“And why would you?” I ask as I usher him into the kitchen, gesturing to the drinks, grateful I made them. Even with the chocolate, my nerves are resurfacing. Because he’s here, and this is happening. This strange crossing of lines that’s not quite crossing is starting any minute. “Moscow Mule?”
He lifts a brow in question. “You’re making drinks now?”
“Hey! I can handle a basic cocktail. Call it the owner’s special,” I say, gesturing to my apartment.
“I’m sure I’ll love it, then,” he says, lifting the mug and offering a toast.
“Also, I thought it might help,” I admit, before I take a drink.
“Are you nervous?”
I nibble on the corner of my lips, glad to admit the truth. “A little.”
He taps his mug to mine. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this, Peyton.”
With that, with his strength, his confidence in our friendship, he defuses the tension. I’m so damn grateful, and I can feel my shoulders relax. “We do, right?”
“Absolutely. May the buttons fly.”
“Let the floor be covered in them.” I clink back and take a drink.
Tristan does too, nodding in approval at the beverage. “You done good, Cookie.”
My brow quirks. “Cookie?”
“I figured it was the only nickname I hadn’t heard your parents give you, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
“I like cookies,” I say, smiling as I take another drink.
“Also, isn’t that what all those romance novel heroes do? Don’t they have pet names for heroines? Sugar Lips and Cute Tush and Bumpkin . . .”
I nearly spit out my drink. “I’m positive they don’t call the women they’re courting Bumpkin.” I set down the cup and turn to grab the treats I picked up for him. “And I have something for you too.” I show him the salt-and-vinegar popcorn, along with a bottle of his favorite IPA. “See? I know you’re still a salty guy.”
He whistles appreciatively. “Let’s get this shirt ripping going so we can have some popcorn.”
“Snacks are the way to your heart,” I say as I set the bag back on the counter.
He grabs my arm, dropping his tough-guy armor as his voice goes a little softer, more vulnerable. “Thanks, Peyton. For the popcorn and beer. And for knowing I’m a salty.”
It’s a small thing, but it feels like a big thing too—this acknowledgment that we know what makes each other tick.
That we intrinsically understand each other.
He holds my gaze a beat longer, his hazel eyes warm and intense. My chest has the audacity to tingle. I lick my lips, trying to keep my tone friendly, playful, as I reply, “Once a salty, always a salty. But I’m glad to see you’re liking sweets too.”
He swallows, his voice a little rough. “Yes, I am.”
And it makes me happy that he does.
He reaches behind me for the copper cup, finishes the contents, then declares, “It’s showtime.”
I’m so ready it nearly scares me.
11
Tristan
She’s given me gifts before, so I don’t let the popcorn and beer go to my head.
She’s a gift giver—always has been. Thanks to Peyton’s birthday-buying extravaganzas, I have a panini grill, a coffee maker, and a drone.
For various holidays, she’s doled out a range of cards: playing cards, Cards Against Humanity, and a gift card to the new Korean restaurant in the East Village that she gave me after I split up with Samantha several months ago.
Over the years, I’ve received countless gifts from this woman, so I’m not going to read anything extra into something as simple as popcorn and beer.
Do that, and you open yourself up to a world of hurt. After all, when she gave me cologne for Christmas four years ago, I misread the hell out of that. For months, each time I wore it, I was convinced it was her secret way of telling me to go for it with her.
Because each time I wore it, she said I’d smelled so good.
That was when I decided to try again with her. Or really, to try for real. To ask her out on a date, once and for all.
And that was when Gage came back to town and won her heart.
I’m not wearing the cologne tonight. I’m not barking up that tree another time.
I’m here to help—that’s all. I bought her chocolate because I’m a good guy. Because that’s what my mom would have told me to do—make sure to let a woman know you appreciate her.
Fine, it’s not like I would have asked Mom, or Dad, for input on Peyton’s unusual request. And I don’t need advice. But I could sense it took some ovaries for Peyton to ask for help, and I want her to feel comfortable.
Hence, chocolate.
I stride into her living room, where she gestures to the couch. This is her show, and she calls the shots. As I sit next to her, she reaches for her phone. “Ready for storytime?”
“I am.”
She clicks open a document and reads in a sultry tone.
“I was pent-up from the night we’d had. From the way he’d talked to me at the concert. From how he’d looked at me in the cab.”
She stops, purses her lips, and coos. “Ooh.”
My curiosity is piqued. “Go on, Cookie. I want to know what kind of night they had, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, I do.” She returns to the story, shimmying her shoulders like she’s having a good time.
I am too, and that both surprises me and doesn’t. My e-reader looks like a high school English teacher’s shelf: A Separate Peace, A River Runs Through It, The Catcher in the Rye. That’s what I dig, as well as the occasional memoir from chefs like Anthony Bourdain, or food blogs that focus on the food rather than the sprinkling of ridiculous adjectives.
I didn’t think I’d enjoy listening to a romance.
But I do.
I like listening to her read to me.
“Weeks of this back-and-forth, this cat and mouse, had me so wound up that I was afraid I’d pounce on him. And when considering pouncing, my rule of thumb was better safe than sorry. Otherwise, you could end up with claw marks.”
“Claw marks are bad?” she asks with an arch of a brow.
My eyes drift to her nails—not too short, not too long. My mind drifts to possibilities I shouldn’t entertain, but I do anyway. “I’m not opposed to them,” I admit.
Maybe it’s a confession she likes, because her breath seems to hitch as she returns to her reading.