Batter question: did I want him to flirt with me?
Yeah, I think I did.
Fuck. I was going to have to talk to Billy and Danny to figure out what in the fuck was going on with me.
Before heading back to the parking lot to grab the tote with the desserts, I rested my hand on the nape of Ezra’s neck. He shivered when I leaned closer, and I was almost certain I heard him whimper. My dick twitched, realizing how much I liked these little signs that I was affecting him.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I’ll make sure no one hurts you.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I stepped away. I was too fucking weak to tell Ezra I might just be the biggest threat to him. I’d never do anything on purpose, but history told me I wasn’t worthy of someone as kind and pure as him.
We made quick work inside the bakery, cleaning up and putting things away. After a while, Ezra glanced at the clock. “It’s not too late. Do you still want to head out for that drink?” he asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice.
I nodded. “For sure. I’m not going to have Anson beating down my door either.”
“Don’t worry. I’d protect you.” Ezra placed his hand on my arm, immediately yanking it back as if he’d been burned. I wished I could have found a way to tell him to put it back because I liked that split second of him feeling comfortable enough to touch me.
As we made our way to the bar, the cold seemed even more biting. The wind gusted, the tall buildings along Main Street creating a wind tunnel effect. The pale moonlight illuminated the streets, casting long, eerie shadows. The snow beneath our shoes muffled our steps, adding to the silence of the night.
I couldn’t help but notice the way Ezra shivered slightly, wrapping his arms around himself. Taking off my scarf, I said, “You should wear this. Don’t want you catching a cold.”
He smirked. “You know, that’s just an old wives’ tale.”
Grinning, I replied, “Then wear it so you aren’t cold. Practicality over myths, right?”
Ezra chuckled, taking the scarf and wrapping it around his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink.
The soft murmur of conversations and the warmth of the fire at the front of the room greeted us as we entered. Anson stood and waved us over as though we wouldn’t have noticed the loud-mouthed group of men in the corner. He raised an eyebrow at Ezra, noting my scarf wrapped snugly around him.
Anson commented, “Nice scarf, Ezra. Looks familiar, Carson.”
Rolling my eyes, I shot back, “Just being a decent human, Anson. Nothing more to it.”
But Anson’s knowing smirk said it all. Laughter and playful banter filled the room as the evening progressed. The weight of the day seemed to melt away, replaced by the lightness of the moment. Every shared glance between Ezra and me hinted at the possibility of something more, something unspoken yet profoundly felt.
Ezra seemed to blossom as the hours passed. One drink turned to two, followed by a tall glass of water I asked for at the bar. He didn’t strike me as much of a drinker, and he needed to be able to get himself home at the end of the night.
He captivated the group with a hilarious story from the bakery. “So there I was,” he started, making exaggerated hand gestures, “trying this new bread recipe when I added a bit too much yeast. Before I knew it, the dough expanded exponentially and”—he paused for dramatic effect—“POOF! It proofed up so much that it looked like a monster trying to take over the kitchen. That was the last time Shiloh asked me to help him with the bread.”
“Oh, Ezra,” I chuckled. “I would’ve paid good money to see that.” From what little I’d seen and gleaned so far, he was the type of man who didn’t deal with mess. It wouldn’t surprise me if his shirts were arranged by style, fabric, and color just to keep them in order. His underwear were probably all the same simple white briefs, neatly folded and tucked in perfect stacks in his dresser.
And hell, there went my mind again. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t not picture his slender backside covered in white cotton. I sucked in a slow, steady breath to calm myself. When that didn’t work, I tried a long draw of the ice-cold beer my buddy, Waylon, had just put down in front of me.
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “It was a sight. I’ll give you that.”
As the clock neared midnight, the pub’s atmosphere mellowed. The music on the jukebox shifted from wailing guitars with heavy beats to classic rock tunes, filling the gaps in our conversations. Ezra and I found ourselves nestled in a quiet corner, our chairs slightly closer than before.
Ezra played with the fringes of the scarf I’d given him earlier. “You know,” he began, his voice soft and contemplative, “this scarf has been around you so much, it carries your scent.”
I chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
He looked up, the dim light catching the deep pools of his eyes. “Definitely a good thing,” he replied with a hint of shyness.
When the bartender announced the last call, we were both reluctant to leave. The cold had intensified, but the warmth between us made it bearable.
As we stepped outside, snow began to fall in huge, fluffy flakes that danced in the moonlight. It was like someone had just shaken one of the snow globes my mom collected.
Ezra looked up, letting the snowflakes settle on his eyelashes. “I’ve always loved seeing late-night snowfalls,” he whispered. “There’s something peaceful about the white flakes falling through the streetlights.”
