Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,13

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