I was paying the bills while going back to school.
Because I was one of those cool twenty-nine-year-olds whose days were filled with textbooks and college co-eds.
I’d told Iris that—well, not about the co-eds, but about going back to school as she’d served me up a slice of the most delicious chocolate pie I’d ever eaten. And I had a sweet tooth, so that was saying a lot.
“This is incredible,” I said, scooping up a giant bite and shoving it into my mouth.
I shouldn’t even be hungry, considering the amount of food I’d just consumed, the starch and carbs alone from the potatoes and stuffing should have sent my blood sugar skyrocketing before plummeting back down and sending me into a food coma. But when she also placed a bowl of cherry pie—sans crust, plus vanilla ice cream—in front of me, I didn’t turn that down either.
I just gave her my thanks, finished up my chocolate pie, and started in on the cherry. “Thanks for inviting me,” I said between bites. “This is way better than the frozen pizza I would have made myself.”
She gasped. “Frozen?” A shudder. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
I lifted a brow. “I’m not serious?”
Her own fork, midway through her much smaller slice of chocolate pie, hit the table. “It’s not hard to make your own dough. It’s like three ingredients, and you let it rise and—”
“Will you show me?”
Lips opened then closed then opened again. “Um, what?”
“Will you show me how to make my own dough?” Three ingredients seemed doable, but mainly, this also seemed like a good way to ensure that I got to see her again.
Her brows drew down. “Tonight?”
I scooped up a spoonful of cherries and cream. “No. I think I ate enough carbs that I’m almost at Defcon One of Pant-Splitting Stages.”
“Oh.” I liked to think that her expression held a twinge of disappointment. “Of course.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Iris’s gaze shot up. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said around bites. “The bar is closed tomorrow. I’m off school. I’d love to learn something new, especially if that something new involves pizza.”
“Oh.” Eyes back down, fork hovering over her pie.
“Oh what?” I asked, feeling some disappointment of my own. “Do you already have plans?”
She shook her head. “No, I just—” Another shake.
I reached across the table and covered her hand. “Just what?”
“I guess, I just thought I was blowing it, rattling on about baking, not tempering the Christmas crazy, almost crying about pies.” She shrugged. “I figured you’d be beating a hasty retreat and—”
“Confidence.”
Her expression turned confused. “What?”
“Remember that confidence thing we both need?” I asked, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Now seems like a good time for it.”
She nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “You’re right.” A nod. “Tomorrow night. Pizza dough.”
I lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “Cool, thanks, darlin’.”
Uncertainty drifted across blue-green eyes. “That is—”
“Uh-uh,” I said, flicking my tongue out. “No take-backs.”
She froze, face incredulous, but then I started grinning, and she started grinning, and then we were both laughing.
When we’d finished, I nudged her bowl in her direction and said, “Now eat up, your pants need to feel as tight as mine.”
More smiles. More laughter.
Then we settled in and finished our desserts.
Afterward, I forced her out of the kitchen to do the dishes, and later accepted a container of leftovers—because they were delicious and I’d work out extra hard if it meant I could keep eating them.
And when I left that night, I stole a kiss.
Because, look at that, she had mistletoe hanging over the front door, and I couldn’t let that go to waste.
Yeah. That Christmas explosion she’d made happen definitely had its perks.
Six
Iris
“That’s it,” I told Brent the next night. “Now, we just wait for it to double in size, roll it out, put the toppings on, and then bake it. Ten to fifteen minutes after that, we’ll have the best pizza you’ve ever tasted.”
I didn’t tell him that it was actually one of my traditions to make a turkey, cranberry sauce, and stuffing laden pie, combining all the best leftovers with even more carbs, nor did I tell him that no one had ever cared enough about what I cooked to ever want to learn part or all of the process. Not my friends, not my parents, not Frank.
It was probably a little sad that I was just now realizing how messed up that was.
Not that I’d expected them to hop in the kitchen with me. Or to push up their sleeves and