He slips inside, the scent of his cologne mingling with the kitchen smells and making my knees weak. He looks around, taking in the gingerbread insanity, then turns that megawatt smile on me. “So, are you trying to seduce me, or are we about to get baked into a pie by a cartoon witch?”
He’s not wrong. It’s…a lot.
I gesture helplessly at the gumdrop pillows. “Look, it was this or the room with the Santa wallpaper. I made a choice, and I stand by it.”
He gives me an exaggerated slow clap. “Honestly, the commitment to the theme is impressive. Ten out of ten for the candy-cane curtains. Is that a cookie sheet being used as wall art?”
I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a bedazzled cookie sheet hanging above the fireplace. “It’s festive.”
“I love it,” he declares. “It’s absurd and perfect. Like you.”
If my heart were any softer, it would ooze out of my boots. “You look fucking incredible,” I admit, because I am still entirely too distracted by the sight of him, and why pretend otherwise. “That shirt should be illegal.”
He laughs, ducking his head. “You know, I almost wore a turtleneck. But I know what the sight of my collarbones does to you.”
“Don’t feed my kinks, May,” I warn. “Unless you’re planning to finish what you start.”
He leans in, lips ghosting my cheek. “That depends. Does dinner come with dessert?”
I groan. “You’re here for my body, not my cooking. I knew it.”
“You caught me.” He glances around, eyes taking in the table, the flowers, the candles. He gets this look, soft, and a little surprised, and my heart just…fuck. I want this every night.
May raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “This is very…domesticated of you.”
“I contain multitudes,” I quip, pouring him a glass of sparkling cider and handing it over. “But mostly I just didn’t want to risk poisoning you on the first date.”
He sips, eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. “First date, huh? I remember our first first date. You spilled Dr. Pepper in my lap and tried to mop it up with napkins from the popcorn stand.”
I laugh, a little mortified and a lot nostalgic. “In my defense, I was very distracted by your legs. And you forgave me. Eventually.”
He pops a grape into his mouth, grinning. “Only because you let me win at mini golf.”
“Is that what you think happened?” I deadpan.
“Please. I was three under par. You were so busy staring at my ass, you could barely hold the club.”
If I could bottle this moment, the warmth, the laughter, the way May looks at me like I’m the only person in the world, I’d die happy, drowning in it.
We snack and banter, falling into the kind of easy rhythm I didn’t even know I missed. Every time May laughs, it feels like a little part of me stitches itself back together. I want to reach over, touch him, pull him into my lap, and never let go, but I’m determined to play it cool. For at least another ten minutes.
He notices, of course. He always does.
“You’re nervous,” he observes, eyes dancing.
“Terrified,” I confess, because there’s no point pretending. “Is it obvious?”
May leans in, lowering his voice. “Only to someone who’s known you since you thought cargo shorts were a personality.”
I wince. “Ouch. Low blow.”
He shrugs, unrepentant. “You’re cute when you’re trying too hard.”
I want to say something clever, but instead I just beam at him, hands a little shaky as I clear away the appetizers. “Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”
May stands, smoothing his shirt, and follows me to the dining table. He lets his hand brush against my lower back as we walk, a tiny touch that nearly makes me drop the plates. The table is set with actual cloth napkins and real candles, and May surveys the setup like he’s judging a reality show.
“Wow. Okay. This is…not what I expected. In a good way.”
