Story of my life—I don’t want to trip, and yet I still do.
Like when I stumbled on my cork-heeled wedges during my eighth-grade graduation.
Or that time I went to my first job interview with my zipper down.
Or, say, the night I tried to treat my fiancé to a sexy surprise.
Even though I’m a lace or bust girl, I donned a satin corset and thong, ready to give Gage what he wanted. He longed for the showgirl look, and I longed to keep him happy, especially since he’d been working so hard, on so many late nights. Time to surprise him with his fantasy, I’d reasoned, and slipped on a trench coat, let myself in at his place, dropped my coat, and struck a pose.
And discovered his executive assistant in a pose too.
Reverse cowgirl, to be precise.
And she looked better in a bustier than I did.
All those late nights working, he’d been cheating on me with her. I bite back the shame that crawls up my throat at the memory.
That was nearly nine months ago. Now I’ve sold the ring, licked my wounds, and taken up yoga to make peace with my inner jilted woman.
But all things being equal, I’d rather not land on my ass again.
“What if I fall?” I ask Tristan.
“I’ve got you.” He helps me onto the barstool, his calm voice reassuring. “Just sit.”
He moves away, then there’s the slide of glass across the wooden counter. My nose twitches happily at the scent of sugar.
“Open your eyes.”
I do, and I gasp at the frilly pink drink in front of me, complete with sugar on the rim of the martini glass and raspberries swirling across the top.
“Aww. You made me a girlie drink. And you hate sweets. You must love me, and this drink is proof.” Tristan has so much Eeyore in him, and I’m all Tigger. I love poking at that seriousness, and he loves to pretend to be annoyed at my exaggerated shows of affection.
He narrows his eyes and growls. “If you tell a soul I made this drink, I will deny it until the end of my days. And this doesn’t change my stance on sweets.”
I raise a hand as if swearing an oath. “Harriet’s Wardrobe can stick it in their cornhole. And I will keep your secret if your drink is as delicious in my mouth as I suspect it will be.”
He shoots me a did you really just go there look. “Do you even hear the things you say?”
I blink. “What was inappropriate? The cornhole bit or your drink being delicious?”
“The way-my-drink-tastes-in-your-mouth part.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger together, showing a sliver of space. “Just a little naughty.”
“Oops. Forgive me.” I wink, then take a drink. My taste buds sing a chorus of heavenly aahs, and I shimmy in my seat. “Who knew you could make such a fabulous sugary drink?”
“No one, and that’s how it’ll stay.”
“Wait. All kidding about sweets aside—you’re really not going to put this on the menu? This is a perfect cocktail.”
He waves like it’s no big deal. “Nah, the menu is good as is. The owner’s special is just for you.”
Just for me.
Those words make my heart glow a little bit.
I down another delicious sip. “Then I am a lucky girl. Because I love the owner’s specials. Each one has been amazing.”
He raises a skeptical brow. “How is that possible? They can’t all be amazing.”
“Don’t rain on your praise parade. Your drinks make me happy; therefore, they’re amazing.” I drop my pitch to near his masculine tone. “Thanks, Peyton. You’re the best for saying that. I accept your heartfelt compliments.”
A wry smile tilts his lips as he organizes glasses behind the bar. “Thanks,” he says crisply, ready to move on. He’s never cared for flowery praise. No surprise—he didn’t grow up with everything you do is awesome parents like I did.
“You’re such an Oscar,” I tease.
“And you’re such a . . .” He takes his time before he says in an offhand way, “Pudding.”
I nearly spit out the drink. Speaking of my parents, I scowl at him, wagging my finger. “You’re not allowed to call me Pudding. Only two people can call me Pudding, and neither of them is you.”
His brow knits in mock confusion. “No? How about Dumpling?”
“You’re evil.”
“And grouchy? I’m evil and grouchy, right?”
“And you love to make fun of me.”
“Can I help it that I have so much to choose from in the childhood nickname department?”
I glare at him. “Just because you know all my family’s embarrassing pet names for me doesn’t mean you can use them as ammunition.”
He shrugs, reaching for a rag and wiping down the counter. “Why do you assume I’m using it against you?”
“Pudding is not a compliment.”
His hazel eyes—the color of honey—have a give Peyton a hard time twinkle. “Maybe I like pudding. Maybe I like dumplings.”
A blush sweeps heat across my cheeks, then down my neck over the rest of me. That’s strange. Why would Tristan’s remark set off a flash of heat on my skin and a fluttering in my belly? A warm and affectionate glow I understand. A hot wave I don’t.
I ignore the tingly sensation and reiterate my point. “You can’t call me Pudding or Dumpling or any of my dad’s other silly little nicknames for me.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll behave . . .” He adopts an innocent look, which must pain him, then hits me with Pie.
I lunge for him, pretending I’m going to throttle him. “You especially can’t ever call me that.” It’s the worst of all the hated nicknames.
He darts away but puts on his best contrite face. “Forgive me for calling you Pie, Peyton Marie Valencia.”
I lean my elbows on the bar and pretend to sulk. “Now you sound like my mother when she’s mad at me.”
“Yes, but are you distracted from your problems?” he asks with a laugh.
It takes me a moment to realize what he means, and my frown clears. “You did all that to lift my mood?”
“It worked, didn’t it? You’re not radiating hate fumes like when you stormed in here a half-hour ago. Am I right?”
“Oh, you.” I tsk, and I smile. “Look at you. Doing that thing where you needle me out of a bad mood.”
He blows on his fingers. “When you’re good, you’re good.” He shifts gears to serious though. “But let’s tackle the work situation. You’re mad at Harriet’s Wardrobe for undercutting you. You took it out on the cornhole board, which I approve of as a means of catharsis, even though you’re literally the worst cornholer I’ve ever seen. Now we need to deal with the reality. Your competition isn’t going away, so what are we going to do about Harriet’s?”
He puts it so bluntly that my chest pinches, my heart giving an anxious pulse. I’ve only begun to turn the corner on You Look Pretty Today, and it wasn’t easy. I did it with elbow grease, love, and an extra ten grand in new stock—ten grand that came from selling Gage’s engagement ring.
Most of the time, I feel like I know what I’m doing when I run the store. But some days, I’m wearing my heart outside my body from the sheer Herculean tasks of the last few years: moving Grandma’s lingerie shop from Queens to a new location in Manhattan, slinging it into the twenty-first century, and carrying on her legacy.