I lock up the shop and step out into the cool night air, the faint smell of cocoa and sugar clinging to my clothes. Main Street is quieter at this hour, just a few cars rolling by and the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the windows. The Pour House sign is lit at the end of the block, humming a faint neon blue.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking, my boots scuffing the pavement. I probably should go home, eat something that isn’t leftover ganache, and sleep like a normal person. Instead, all I can see is her standing in my shop:voluptuous curves, cheeks flushed, eyes fierce, hair slightly mussed. Jenna Howard. And she has no idea who I am.
The thought makes me smile.
Back in high school, I was the tall, lanky kid with the crooked glasses, a face full of acne, and a mouth full of metal. I spent most of my time hiding at the end of the hallway by the art room, sketchbook open, earbuds in. I was more elbows and knees than coordination, always tripping over something, usually my own feet.
Jenna, on the other hand, was… Jenna.
The popular cheerleader, always in that green-and-gold uniform with a huge bow in her hair. But she wasn’t like the others. She didn’t travel in one of those mean-girl packs, didn’t expect kids to move out of the way, or roll her eyes when someone dropped their books or tripped in front of her. When she laughed, it was real. When a teacher called on her, she was actually paying attention. She smelled like green apple shampoo and something soft and floral, and I used to sit behind her in homeroom, staring at the back of her head, pretending to take notes. Everyone saw the pretty cheerleader. But I saw the quiet girl who disappeared into her books at lunch, who didn’t seem to know how amazing and beautiful she was.
And now? Now I’ve filled out. The braces are gone and so is the acne. My jawline showed up sometime around my early twenties, along with about fifty pounds of muscle and full sleeves of intricate ink. Europe knocked the shy kid right out of me and replaced it with a baritone voice and quiet confidence.
So, yeah, I get why she didn’t make the connection between the nerd who once dropped his entire lunch tray when she smiled at him and the guy behind the counter at Bliss. Still, I thought she would’ve recognized me.
I grin as I push open the door of The Pour House. The bar is loud and comfortably dim, muted light spilling from industrialfixtures overhead. The familiar scent of beer, fried food, and worn wood. Nineties rock music thrums low from the speakers, just under the sound of clinking glasses and laughter.
“Look what the cocoa gods dragged in,” a voice calls from the pool tables.
I spot Marcus first—tall, broad, grinning—lining up a shot while Kyle and Eric stand nearby with beers in hand. They all turn as I walk in, lifting their chins in greeting.
“You’re late,” Marcus teases, sinking his ball in the corner pocket. “Just because you own your own business, you can’t show up on time?”
“Had to close up,” I answer, making my way over. “Some of us have jobs that don’t involve sitting behind a desk, staring at spreadsheets all day.”
Kyle snorts. “Says the guy who plays with chocolate for a living.”
“It’s edible art,” I correct, lifting a hand for a fist bump. “Show some respect.”
Eric claps me on the shoulder. “How’s Bliss treating you, man?”
“Good. Busy.” I grab a beer from the edge of the table, the cold bottle sweating against my palm. “Valentine’s rush has already started.”
Marcus wiggles his eyebrows. “Lots of desperate men buying last-minute chocolates for their girlfriends and wives?”
“And plenty of independent women buying their own. Those are my favorite customers.”
They laugh, and I take a pull of my beer, letting the cool burn settle in my chest.
“So,” Kyle says, leaning back against the wall, “this true or did I hear wrong? Some girl came into your shop yelling about a dick?”
I choke slightly and cough, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Achocolatedick. And word travels fast.”
Marcus grins. “It’s a small town, man. What do you expect?”
Eric looks amused. “Dude, is this a thing you offer now? Custom cocks?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “It was a special request.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Special how?”
I picture Jenna again, cheeks pink and eyes flashing as she demanded retribution in confectionery form. The corner of my mouth curls into a smirk. “Spiteful. And kind of impressive.”
Marcus barks out a laugh. “Who was it?”
I take another drink, considering my options. I could play it off, or I could tell them and let the teasing commence. But, because they’re going to find out anyway, I answer truthfully. “Jenna. Jenna Howard.”
For a beat, there’s stunned silence. Then all three of them start talking over each other.
