“That’s because it’s not.” I move around him, pulling the plug before it blows.
Ronan helps me clean up the mess. It turns out one of the seals has broken, so we’re down a freaking cappuccino maker. I call around frantically, looking to see if someone can come in and fix it today. While we can usually get by with one machine, it’s going to be busy tonight.
I manage to find someone who can come in this afternoon, but of course it’s going to cost me a freaking arm and a leg. Ronan apologizes profusely, obviously feeling bad about it. I assure him it wasn’t his fault, and that it’s just crap timing.
The morning flies by; people working half-days stop in to grab a quick bite, orders are picked up for events, and by the time two rolls around we’re almost completely sold out, which is great because it means little in the way of cleanup before we set up for tonight.
The cappuccino maker is fixed, thankfully, before three in the afternoon, and a test run indicates that it’s back in working order.
By three thirty B&B is ready for the evening, tables set up to display tiers of dessert cupcakes, glittery decorations everywhere, a perfect complement to the beer and champagne theme. Everything is gold and black and sparkly and beautiful.
I stand in the middle of the shop with my hands on my hips. “I think it looks perfect. What do you think?”
“Definitely perfect.” Ronan is still wearing a Buttercream and Booze apron, but his focus isn’t on the decorations.
“You’re not even looking.” I motion to the shop.
“I don’t need to. I helped put them up, so I already know how they look.”
“But it’s everything put together. That’s what makes it perfect.”
“And you’re the cherry on top. Or maybe you should be one of those little Eat Me candies instead. Those are delicious. You got any lying around?”
“You realize that made no sense at all, right?”
“Sure it did. This place looks perfect and not just because the decorations are on point, but because you’re in the middle of it, looking radiant and proud as hell, as you should be. Now where are those Eat Me candies?”
“There aren’t any Eat Me candies.”
“Well, that’s a disappointment. I guess I’ll have to settle for a leftover cupcake.” He plucks one from a box—that’s all there is left—peels off the wrapper and devours it in two bites, groaning his enjoyment.
When he’s done, we head over to The Knight Cap and enlist the help of his staff to decorate. Much to Ronan’s dismay, I hang mistletoe above the bar and over the tables.
“Aren’t we a little late for this?”
“It’s never too late for mistletoe.”
“Like people don’t already have an excuse to make out on New Year’s; now you’re adding this?” He motions to the pretty sprig tied with a red, gold, and black plaid ribbon hanging from one of the lights above the bar—which I’m standing on top of, while wearing a pair of the steel-toed boots reserved for the axe throwers.
On account of tonight’s festivities and the very high likelihood that many if not most of the patrons will be “super wasted,” as Lars put it, the axes have all been locked away. Standing tables have been set up and stools line the walls so there’s more room for mingling and dancing.
“Oh, come on, don’t be a Scrooge. These should have been up all month!”
“I’m just saying, Lars doesn’t need an excuse to make out with the customers.”
“Maybe some poor shy girl who would never in a million years have the guts to kiss the guy she’s interested in will find herself under this mistletoe and end up kissed by her very own Prince Charming.”
“More likely a bleary-eyed, horny, drunk guy, but I get that you’re throwing off your wonderland vibes tonight and prefer to live in a land of fairy tales and make-believe where college guys aren’t a bunch of dirtbags.”
“Were you a dirtbag?” I ask. Ronan is flirty, but not in a slimy way.
“Not as a general rule, no.”
I move down the bar to the next hanging light so I can wrap the glittery garland around it, affixing yet another sprig of mistletoe. “So that means you occasionally were a dirtbag.” It’s more statement than question.
“I’m not perfect, and I was once a drunk, horny twentysomething. Try not to judge me too harshly.”
I move on to the next light. “How old were you when you started with the body art?”