Virgin Daiquiri

by Elise Faber

  My forehead fell to her shoulder, breaths coming in rapid succession, my body dripping in sweat, and I said the only thing I could, “Well, darlin’, now that I have an idea of what I’m doing, let’s go for round two.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  I lifted my head, heart light for the first time in ages. Because of this woman. Because I was taking Brooke’s advice. No more squandering. I was all about living now.

  “I love you,” I said. “I know we have so much ground to cover, a lot to talk about, but I need you to know that I love you, Iris Hannigan.”

  Her face gentled, and her eyes filled with tears. “Honey.”

  “I’m so sorry I freaked out and left,” I said, rolling us to the side and holding her close. “My head was so messed up, and I was scared that I already felt so much for you.”

  “Brent,” she murmured, cupping my cheek. “I’m sorry, too. I should have—”

  “No,” I said, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “I should have—”

  She nipped my bottom lip. “I thought we weren’t doing should haves.”

  I nipped her bottom lip. “You started it.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  I grinned.

  She grinned, but then her blue-green eyes filled with tears. “How did I get so lucky to find you?” She sniffed. “I love you, Brent Collins.”

  I kissed away a tear that escaped, lightened my tone because I wanted her happy in my bed, not crying, and even though I understood her tears weren’t from her being sad, I still liked those pretty blue-green eyes best when they were sparkling up at me. “Gave me the full name back, huh?”

  Her brows drew together. “What?”

  “I said, I love you, Iris Hannigan, and you had to give me the full Brent Collins back?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re not even making sense.”

  “You’re always trying to one-up me.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Well, you,” I said and pressed a kiss to her nose, “make me think that anything is possible.” A beat. “Plus, I got you to stop crying.”

  Iris sighed, shook her head. “Brent.”

  “What?”

  “If you keep saying stuff like you’ve been saying, then the crying isn’t going to stop, no matter how much you tease me.”

  I chuckled. “I love you, darlin’.”

  She sniffed, waved a hand in the direction of her face, and I saw a few tears had escaped. “This is your fault.”

  “Well,” I said and flipped us over, positioning her on top of me, “since you’re already crying, I may as well subject you to Round Two.”

  Her mouth fell open, but then she gave as good she got because she rolled to her side, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Well, rookie, you’ve got to take care of that first.” She gestured to the condom. “Or maybe”—her lips came very close to my ear—“since I’m on birth control and I’m also clean—and I’m guessing you are, too—that maybe I might let you come inside me.”

  And just like that, hard.

  And just like that, on my toes.

  And just like that, all of my fears slipped away.

  Because I had this woman in my life.

  And I wasn’t letting her go.

  “Hey,” I murmured, much, much later. “Want to hear a funny story?”

  “Besides the fact that I still haven’t regained feeling in my legs?” she asked drowsily. Round Two had been even more intense than Round One.

  Which was saying something.

  “That, I think, is far from funny,” I said, nuzzling her throat. “That, I think, is the best compliment I’ve ever had.”

  “You mean the best compliment ever isn’t me telling you that you pour a mean glass of Merlot?”

  I grinned, lightly bit the spot where her shoulder met her neck, loving that when I did, she moaned softly and lifted her hand to rest on the back of my head, fingers digging in slightly. “Aside from that,” I murmured against her skin.

  “Then, is it too soon to say that I think you were messing with me when you said you were a virgin because that’s how good you are?”

  I laughed. “No,” I said. “That’s me mentally chalking that up into the Best Compliments Ever column.”

  “Then what’s the funny story?” she asked lazily.

  “This.” I reached over her and pulled out the tiny package from my nightstand. Not a condom this time, I thought with a grin. But a tiny parcel I’d gone to three grocery stores at the butt crack of dawn to find.

  Turned out, it was difficult to track down when it was after Christmas.

  But I had, and I’d intended to bring it to Iris that very day.

  Only she’d beat me to the punch by coming to me.

  Why did I think that wouldn’t be the first time it happened, her beating me to the punch?

  I handed her the palm-sized package that I’d wrapped in cheerful Christmas paper—penguins wearing hats and skis as they made their way down a silver mountain top.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Really?” I dropped a kiss on her lips. “Just open it.”

  “Fine, fine,” she grumbled, tearing at the corner gently. “You know,” she said as she painstakingly pulled the tape free, “you gave me my only two Christmas presents this year.”

  Fucking hell.

  This woman destroyed me.

  “I love you,” I murmured against her lips.

  She smiled when I pulled back. “I love you, too.” Then went back to work, slowly removing another piece of tape.

  “Are you going to open that sometime this century?” I grumbled.

  “I’m savoring it,” she said, daintily working at one corner.

  And then because I couldn’t stand how slowly she was opening the present and also because I vowed to buy her so many presents the next year that she wouldn’t even be able to count them all, I snatched the package from her hands, tore off the paper, and handed it back to her.

  Her lips parted in surprise when she saw the sprig of mistletoe. “Oh.”

  “I know it’s hardly anything,” I said, thinking now that maybe I should have spent my time buying her something that had cost more than two dollars in the clearance section.

  She deserved diamonds and fancy trips and—

  Iris launched herself into my arms, hooking her own around my neck and squeezing hard. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  Then the tears came.

  And I discovered I didn’t mind her blue-green eyes filled with tears, after all.

  Especially when I got to hold her tight when they came.

  Then coax her into Round Three when they stopped.

  We each had spent far too long not living our lives fully, and I vowed to make sure we would both grab on to every chance to make up for that lost time.

  Later, after I’d had a huge slice of Iris’s incredible nine-layer cake, I also realized I’d need many more Rounds in order to work off all the extra sweetness that was sure to fill my life.

  But that was something I was wholly on board with.

  Epilogue

  Part One

  Iris, One Year Later, Christmas Day

  I was swaying to the music, singing along with the lyrics to Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas when I smelled it.

  “Oh no!” I tossed the popcorn and cranberry garland I was stringing and sprinted into the kitchen.

  Only to find black smoke pouring out of the oven.

  “Shit!” I muttered, running over to it and snatching out the three full-sized pies.

  Full-sized because I was hosting Christmas dinner for Kace, Brooke, Anabelle, Brent, and myself, and I’d decided that four full-sized pies were required, three of which were currently smoldering in the oven. One of which, the chocolate custard, was cooling in the fridge.

  Just like last year.

  And just like last year, I was destined to burn the shit out of my dessert.
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br />   “Dammit!” I cried, pulling out the pumpkin with a potholder and dumping it into the trash, then reaching in and pulling out the pecan and doing the same.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I knew I’d set a timer. I just knew it.

  But the blackened pies would say otherwise.

  Fuck. I had—my eyes flicked to the clock—twenty minutes until Brent got back from picking up Anabelle, who didn’t have a car, and before Kace and Brooke showed up on my front porch.

  And I was a baker who did not have enough desserts.

  Again.

  Well, I think I had some cookie dough in the freezer. I’d defrost that, throw together some Christmas cookies, and pair them with the chocolate custard. It would have to be enough.

  But first, the cherry with its torched gingerbread cutout top would have to meet its fate in the trash can.

  I pulled it out, carried it over—

  “Wait!”

  I glanced to the doorway, saw Brent and Anabelle. “It’s trash, honey,” I told him. “I burned them again.”

  Something flickered across his face, but I didn’t have a chance to process it. Or at least I didn’t until he snagged the pie from my hands, whipped off the burnt crust, and set it on the potholder on the counter.

  Then I gasped and stomped my foot. “Brent Collins, you did not turn off my timer so that I’d burn the pies again and we could have cherry pie filling with vanilla ice cream again.”

  “Actually,” Anabelle said. “That sounds amazing.”

  “Hush you,” I snapped, pointing my finger at her. She hushed, though when I glanced up to offer an apology for snapping, she just grinned and said, “Keep going, I love hearing Brent get yelled at.”

  “Gee, thanks,” the love of my life muttered.

  I glared at him. “How dare you turn off my timer—”

  “I didn’t turn it off so that the pies would burn and we could have cherry pie with vanilla ice cream,” he blurted, interrupting my scolding, but when I opened my mouth to say “what,” he kept talking and my sentence never came, especially when his next sentence was, “I turned it off so that I could do that.” And he pointed at the pie, sans gingerbread top, but plus one bright blue box perched amongst my hand-pitted cherries.

  I gaped.

  Then gaped further when he used the potholder to pick up the pie and dropped to one knee. “Iris Hannigan, my wonderful baking love who burns all the pies.” I huffed, even though my lips were twitching, my eyes stinging with tears. “I love you, darlin’, more than I ever thought I could love another person. You’ve given me my life back. No, you’ve given me a life better than I could ever imagine.” A beat. “And five extra pounds to work off,” he said and grinned.

  I laughed.

  Or maybe it was a sob.

  I didn’t know, couldn’t be bothered to process it, not when the man I loved was down on one knee, holding up a cherry pie with a ring box plunked in its center, all while he was proposing to me!

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” I exclaimed then dropped to my knees, launched myself into his arms, and crushed my mouth to his.

  It was only much later, after we’d come up for air, that I saw Kace had saved us from being splattered with hot cherry pie filling, snatching the pie from Brent’s hands when it had teetered and nearly fallen, and setting it on the counter.

  Brooke hugged me as Brent retrieved the ring, peeling away the plastic wrap he’d encased the box in. “We were hiding in the pantry,” she whispered.

  I gasped and swatted her arm. “And you let my pies burn?” I accused.

  She grinned. “Brent had a plan.” A beat. “Not one that made a lot of sense, but one that he was adamant about.”

  Brent wrapped an arm around my waist, tugged me against his chest. “It was a good plan.”

  I dashed a tear away when he slipped the ring on my finger. “Do you know how long I worked on that pastry?” I spun in his arms, eyes narrowed. Then I sighed and pressed a kiss to his lips. “But I love you so much for having that dumb ass plan anyway.”

  And because he was mine, because I could, I kissed him again.

  At least until Anabelle made a gagging sound that had us breaking apart.

  “Whose idea was it to have our family here for this anyway?” Brent muttered.

  I touched his jaw. “Yours, and it was perfect.” Then I blew out a breath, pulled out of Brent’s arms and clapped my hands together. “Okay, who’s hun . . . gry?” My question trailed off when I saw Kace, Anabelle, and Brooke gathered around the remains of my cherry pie, a carton of vanilla ice cream next to it, no bowls in sight, but spoons in hand.

  Anabelle scooped a spoonful of vanilla ice cream from the carton and plunked it in her mouth then repeated the process with the pie. “It’s delicious,” she said, but it sounded a lot like “Shtsh shlishes,” as she spoke around the bites.

  “It’s unsanitary!”

  Kace shrugged. “Couldn’t find bowls.”

  I plunked my hands on my hips. “But you could find spoons and the ice cream?”

  “Yup.” Brooke held up two more spoons. “Do you want in on this action?”

  I smiled then felt my eyes burn with tears again when Brent whispered, “They’re family, darlin’,” in my ear.

  “Not more tears,” Anabelle groaned. “More eating.”

  I dashed one away, crossed to my friends, my family, and took a spoon. “Now that I can get behind.”

  Family.

  Burnt cherry pie.

  Vanilla ice cream.

  A huge, sparkling ring.

  Best. Christmas. Ever.

  Epilogue

  Part Two

  Anabelle

  I slipped out the front door of Iris’s house, several containers of leftovers balanced in my hands, struggling to close it behind me.

  The party was still going strong, but I had to head out. Though at least I was able to bring treats with me—albeit more of them than was polite. But I didn’t have any shame. Iris had offered, and I was taking my stash to my car—the one I’d finally been able to afford to buy, in part because of the crew inside this little house.

  My boss and owner of Bobby’s, the bar where I worked, Kace.

  My coworker, Brent, who was charming, even with the most annoying of customers.

  Their women—Brooke and Iris. Though maybe more accurate would be to say that Kace and Brent were their men. Because those men no longer held their own hearts. They’d trusted them into Brooke and Iris’s safekeeping.

  It was great. I was happy for them.

  But also . . . it wasn’t for me.

  I wasn’t looking for a happy ending. I just wanted a safe place. I wanted to make a living and not rely on anyone else. I wanted to control my temper so I didn’t dump a Cosmopolitan on the lap of a handsy customer and instead carefully dissuaded him from being an asshole.

  Okay, that last one was a lie.

  I definitely didn’t mind dumping cocktails on handsy fucking customers, especially when those customers had an open tab I could charge said cocktail to.

  I kind of liked being an asshole.

  Just slightly less than I liked the crew inside. So, I wasn’t looking for an exit, an escape from the love and the happily ever afters inside. Rather, I’d offered to go in and meet the alcohol delivery at Bobby’s the next morning, to save the lovebirds from an early morning.

  Which meant it was time for me to go.

  I fumbled with the knob, shifting the containers to grab it then failing, then lifting a foot and trying to use that to close the door.

  Newsflash. I wasn’t a member of Cirque de Soleil and so it didn’t work.

  Sighing, I bent to place the containers down, something I should have just done in the first place.

  Always trying to take the easy way out, Anna. Sometimes it’s better to just take the hard one from the beginning.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I muttered under my breath.

  Ten years go
ne and still chastising me from the wrong side of the grave.

  Still never failed to make me smile.

  She would like my friends.

  “Don’t.”

  I stopped mid-bend at the male voice.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Tall. Really tall. Dark hair with a reddish tint. Olive skin. Bright blue eyes. And, oh NBD, maybe also the most handsome man I’d ever met.

  I swallowed hard then frowned when he reached past me to close the door.

  Then frowned harder when he rang the doorbell.

  “Um,” I began, wanting to ask him what in the ever-loving-fuck he was doing. But the doorbell had been rung and footsteps approached, and the wooden panel swung back open to reveal Brooke standing on the threshold, smile wide. “Did you forget something, An . . . a . . . belle?”

  The smile faded from Brooke’s face.

  Her olive skin went pale.

  Her eyes widened. Her eyes . . . that were the same shape as those of the man towering over me on the porch.

  Kace came up behind her. “Everything okay—”

  Brooke didn’t answer him, just reached a hand out as though she expected to encounter a ghost, her voice shaking when she spoke.

  “Hayden?”

  On The Rocks

  On The Rocks is coming September 27th, 2020. Preorder your copy at www.books2read.com/OnTheRocksEF

  Love After Midnight

  Rum and Notes

  * * *

  Virgin Daiquiri

  * * *

  On The Rocks

  Also by Elise Faber

  Billionaire’s Club (all stand alone)

  Bad Night Stand

  Bad Breakup

  Bad Husband

  Bad Hookup

  Bad Divorce

  Bad Fiancé

  Bad Boyfriend

  Bad Blind Date

  Bad Wedding (July 19th, 2020)