Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,28

there, liked the atmosphere, the people, and how the space somehow felt like home, even when it was filled with strangers. It rounded out my existence since I’d moved, gave me another place that I could belong.

I really hoped I could find a way to keep it.

“Iris?”

I glanced over my shoulder, saw Kace had come up behind me.

“You good?”

“Great!” I chirped. “I just need to go . . . check on—”

“Brent?”

His tone told me he knew that wasn’t true.

“Actually, no,” I said. “I have dough rising at my kitchen for croissants. I need to put it in the fridge so it’s ready for the morning.”

That was true.

Although, it wasn’t true that I had to do it strictly at that moment.

Still, Kace seemed to believe me because he just nodded, though those eyes stayed unreadable. “See you soon,” he said. “Make sure you stop by in the next couple of days. I think Brooke will actually be done with her book and will be able to talk about whatever it is that put that look on your face.”

“What?”

He tugged a strand of my hair. “Something’s up. I won’t push.” A beat. “Unless you want me to?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. Talking with Brooke then.”

I forced a smile. “Talking. With Brooke. Sounds great.” I took a step toward the door. “I’ll bring the baked goods.”

“Don’t need to buy friendship, sweetheart,” Kace said then smiled. “But not saying they won’t be devoured all the same.”

“Right.”

I nodded, tried not to think too hard about his words, at risk of crying, and fled.

It was two in the morning.

I’d spent the evening being miserable and generally feeling sorry for myself. But now it was my witching hour, the time I always seemed to find myself awake, ruminating on everything I’d done wrong.

Tonight, I just couldn’t do any more of that.

So, I pushed out of bed, slipped on my second oldest sweatshirt, and went down to my kitchen. I was going to make the hardest thing I could think of—my special-occasion-only, extremely-expensive-albeit-very-delicious nine-layer-cake.

Alternating layers of delicate chocolate sponge, each sandwiching four different fillings—ganache, homemade raspberry jam, crispy dark chocolate cookies and praline (both homemade then pulverized and stirred into a white chocolate mousse), and Bavarian cream whipped by hand, respectively.

It was riddled with technique-heavy ingredients and would take concentration.

So much so that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.

Done. Good plan. Work your brain into submission.

“I’m trying,” I muttered, stumbling into the kitchen and flicking on the lights, blinking for a moment against the brightness before I headed to my baking cabinet and began extracting the pans I’d need. And for the next forty-five minutes, I was distracted by the recipe. I’d gotten my ingredients out. I’d measured and prepped. I’d whipped up the batter for the sponge cake.

It was working. Sort of. Because if I could just keep my hands busy, my mind on the list of tasks ahead, I’d be okay, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking ashamed anymore.

“Shit,” I muttered, deliberately grabbing the carton of raspberries.

I’d just dumped them into the saucepan, along with sugar, water, and lemon zest when there was a knock at my door.

My first inclination was to be terrified that someone was knocking at my door at three in the morning.

My next was hope.

That it was Brent. That Kace had talked to him and—

I ran to the door, whipped it open, and found . . . Brooke.

“Oh,” I said, my disappointment obvious. “It’s you.” I clamped a hand over my mouth, realizing how it sounded. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”

“I’m not the three a.m. visitor you wanted,” Brooke said, matter-of-factly. “If I had Brent showing up at my doorstep on the regular, I’d be disappointed in me, too.”

I stepped back so she could come in. “What are you doing here?”

She paused in my entryway.

More hand clamping, more realizing I still sounded like a jerk. “Not that it’s not good to see you,” I quickly added, the words slightly muffled from my fingers, “but . . .”

“It’s three in the morning, and I’m showing up unannounced at your door?” Brooke asked.

Yeah. That.

She smiled, seeming to hear my unspoken answer.

“Kace and I were driving home from the bar. Brent had mentioned you lived in this house a bit ago, and we saw the light was on.” A shrug. “I told Kace to drop me off and head home, though he decided to wait in the car.”

I glanced behind me, finally noticing the car in the driveway, Kace’s form visible behind the