by Elise Faber
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,” he said. “I’m not trying to be all steroidal alpha-male, but if a girl I’m interested in tries to pay, I’m not letting her.”
I leaned back, glared up at him. “Letting?”
He shrugged then repeated, “Letting.”
My temper flared, my lips parted to fire off a retort . . . and then I saw the twinkle in his eyes.
He was messing with me.
The twerp.
“You’re annoying,” I said, even though I was smothering my own smile.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Kace says it on the regular.” A beat before he held up his cell. “So, letting me pay?”
“Me letting you,” I replied, not bothering to fight my smile any longer. “Yup, that’s right.”
He snorted but didn’t otherwise reply. Instead, he stayed close as he scrolled through the restaurants on the screen. “Still in the mood for pizza?”
My stomach rumbled in affirmation.
A flash of white. “Pizza it is. Do you like Indian food? There’s this fusion place not too far away, and their tandoori pie is beyond delicious.”
As a matter of fact, I loved Indian food. “Is it spicy?”
“Is it Indian food?” he countered.
“True.” I giggled. “Well, the good news is I do like spicy things.”
He waggled his brows. “I’m hoping you’re saying that in reference to my spicy personality.”
I snorted. “I’m starting to understand why Kace says you’re annoying.”
“It’s a skill I’ve honed over many years.” He pressed the screen a few more times. “Okay, so pizza is an hour out”—he pocketed his cell then took my hand, started drawing me back to the couch in the other room—“so we’ve got time to see John McClane blow some shit up.”
“And eat caramel corn,” I said, letting myself get drawn along, partly because he was strong and fighting him would take effort I was feeling too lazy to exert after having spent the last hour in his arms, enjoying his mouth on mine, his hands on my body. But although I’d thoroughly enjoyed those kisses, I mostly let him lead me to the other room because I liked spending time with him. He was funny and kind, and had a no-nonsense way about him that I really appreciated after Frank’s duplicity. I liked how carefully he held me against him, as though I were important, but not like I was fragile.
And I liked how he teased me.
Gently, not in a mean way, and paired with a self-deprecating smile as he equally poked fun at himself.
I liked the smiles.
I liked the laughter.
Both made me feel lighter than I had in years, and the pain from Frank, the hole I’d opened, and the uncertainty I felt in leaving home and everyone I knew, shrank.
How two days could change a person’s life so unequivocally, I couldn’t quite believe, but it had changed. And not just because of Brent and how he made me feel, but also because the distance away from home, from what I was realizing was a black hole, emotional-vampire-filled drama den, had given me clarity.
I could do this.
I didn’t need my parents. I didn’t need my so-called friends. I didn’t need Frank.
And perhaps understanding that meant I would be able to let in more people like Brent.
“You’re pretty when you’re pondering,” Brent said.
I came out of my head enough to realize that he’d led me to the couch, had tucked me into his side. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m not used to having my head in the clouds this often. Usually, I’m a feet-on-the-ground, eyes-forward, plowing-on kind of person.” I wrinkled my nose. “Which is probably why I missed the fact that my fiancé was sleeping with every available female in the vicinity.”
“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?”
“I got it,” I said.
Her gaze met mine.
“House merlot, right?”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
I turned away, reaching for a glass, even though I was seriously encroaching on Kace’s station, but she stopped me with a hand on my wrist.
“Pizza,” she murmured, lifting the box, “that comes with perfectly risen dough.”
“Thanks, darlin’,” I said, flipping my palm over to capture her fingers in mine, squeezed lightly. “I’ll have to save it to eat during my dinner break, but it smells incredible.” I snagged the box. “Let me put this somewhere safe, grab your wine, get ahead on orders, then I’ll come back and chat.”
“Go,” she ordered then smiled. “Also, while it’s better hot, it’s almost as good cold.” Shifting, she parked herself on the stool I’d brought out, then pulled out a book from her purse. “And don’t worry about me. I’ve come prepared to entertain myself.”
I nodded, started to turn away.
Then turned back, mouth dropping open.
Then looked at Brooke, caught her gaze, and let my eyes drop back to the cover. She frowned, but then let her own gaze drift down to the book, eyes crinkling with mischief as a smile spread over her face. “What do you think of it?” she asked Iris.
I opened my mouth, but Iris cut me off before I had the chance to intervene. “Oh my God, it’s amazing! Have you read Brooke McAlister before? She’s on my instant buy list. I love her books so much!”
I didn’t think Brooke had thought through the actual conversation before she’d started down this path.
One, because my Brooke—well, Kace’s Brooke—was Brooke McAlister.
And two, because my-slash-Kace’s Brooke was also terrible at taking compliments.
I grinned. “Funny story,” I said, certain there was now mischief in my eyes, “is that this Brooke”—I indicated Brooke, whose cheeks were now flaring bright red—“is—”
“Brent,” Brooke warned.
I ignored her. “That Brooke.” I tapped the book’s cover.
Iris’s mouth dropped open. “No way.”
“Yes, way.” Brooke smiled shyly. “Thanks for reading them.”
“Omg, reading is the least of what I do to them—” Iris broke off, shook her head. “Sorry, that sounded really freaking weird. But my point was that, yes, I read them. Also, yes, I devour them. I preorder the eBooks so they can hit my Kindle at nine p.m. the night
before release day, then stay up all night reading, then I order the paperback to be delivered on release day so that I can reread the story on actual book pages.” She sighed, held the novel to her chest. “You write the best male characters. I swear Jace was my favorite.”
Kace chose that moment to pop his head in, muttering. “Don’t want to cock-block, bro, but I really need a hand.”
I nodded. “Sorry. I’ll—”
“Wait,” Iris said, and I stopped, not realizing that she wasn’t looking at me in the least. Her gaze was flicking between Kace and Brooke, and a wide grin had broken out on her face. “You’re Jace?” Her lips parted on a slow exhale. “Whoa. That’s—”
“Fiction,” I growled, shoving between them and now seriously regretting having put my woman on Kace’s end of the bar.
What had I been thinking?
Kace was . . . a fucking model. Every woman drooled after him, wanted to get in his pants. Iris would be—
“Did you really steal Brooke’s credit card?”
Kace’s brows pulled down.
“That means yes,” Brooke whispered, lips curved at the corner. “And while my Kace was the initial inspiration for the book’s hero, I did make Jace much more alpha, much more of an asshole, and much more stubborn.”
“Hey,” Kace protested. “I’m alpha.”
“He’s not,” Brooke stage whispered. “I love the man, but what I love the most is that even though he strives to take care of me, even though he can be pushy and demanding sometimes, that he is not an alpha. He’s a beta or even what I’d consider a pussy cat.”
Kace made a strangled noise.
I was suddenly feeling a lot better, especially when Iris nodded and said, “Alphas. Fun to read. Not so fun to live with.”
“I’d take Kace over Jace, every day of the week,” Brooke said. “He’s a much better kisser than a fictional hero and that goes doubly so for in the—”
Now it was my turn to make a strangled noise.
Kace glanced over at me, made a sympathetic face. “We’ve gotta get out of here, dude, before we hear more shit we shouldn’t.”