Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,37

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.

“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