Chapter Four
Holly
Goddamn, Cole Garrison and I have been talking for several minutes, and neither of us have thrown out a “fuck you” or made a “your mother” joke. Of course, the latter would be pretty inappropriate because his mother, God rest her, is dead, and mine is like the Real Housewives shoved into a blender with the Bachelorette.
More than that, he’s shared something personal with me. True, he may have only done it because he just witnessed a very cringe-worthy moment in my personal life, but even so… This thing with Cole…
It’s surprising.
It’s nice.
Even if heissort of an asshole.
“Well, you know what they say,” I hedge, not entirely sure where I’m going with this, “kids can sense evil. No, wait. That’s dogs. Anyway. I’m sure kids can too. She’ll realize they’re assholes. I mean, she can hardly help it. An acquaintance at the post office told me that Evelyn Labelle ordered a several-foot-tall rooster sculpture from Italy.” I waggle my brows. “Guess old Bertie’s cock isn’t doing it for her.”
He laughs at me, something twinkling in his eyes. “You’re shit-faced.”
“You take that back,” I say. I consider taking a sip of the cappuccino, but I wasn’t born yesterday—Laura has been giving me the stink-eye since I sat down next to Cole. She probably made the design on top by spitting into it. “We Mayberrys have an excellent ability to drink.”
He gives me anuh-huhlook. “You know, I own a brewery. Dogs might be able to sense evil, but bartenders can sense drunk people.” To my shock, he reaches out and taps me on the nose. I must be demented, because that single point of contact seems to singe through me.
“You’re treating me like a dog,” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re going to give me atreat?”
I hear a snort behind the bar, but I don’t give Laura the time of day. My attention is on Cole. There’s heat in his eyes.
“I don’t kiss drunk women,” he says, rubbing his mouth. There’s something rueful about him. Good. He’s not immune to me.
“Who said anything about kissing?” I say, but I can’t deny my heart is beating double-time in my chest. Well, not double-time. That would probably suggest some sort of cardiac issue.
Turning toward the bar, I tell Laura, whose face is so sour she’s probably been back there sucking on lemon rinds, “Two forks, please. We plan to eviscerate this cake.” I nudge the box.
She sneers at me. “We don’t allow outside food. This is arestaurant.”
“Yes, I’d noticed,” I say.
“It’s her birthday,” Cole interjects, his tone as smooth as a good aged bourbon. “And she already made the arrangements for the cake with the waitstaff.”
She complies and hands over the silverware, but let’s be honest, it has nothing to do with it being my birthday and everything to do with the sexy-as-sin man who asked her.
Damn him.
I open the cake box and lift my fork, but Cole doesn’t reciprocate. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
“Maybe I don’t like cake,” he says, his mouth twitching.
“I knew you were a psychopath.” He laughs, and I add, “Besides, we both know you like getting into women’s skirts.” I gesture to the princess cake. “Consider this your golden opportunity.”
There’s amusement in his eyes as he says, “It’s terrifying.”
“Obviously. But it’s still cake. You can close your eyes while you sink your fork in.”
It’s just asking for athat’s what she said, but he just gives me a small smile and says, “You make a surprisingly coherent argument for a woman who’s had four drinks.”
“Like I said, we Mayberrys can hold our liquor.”
He lifts his fork, and maybe Iama little tipsy, because I tap mine against it in a cake cheers. We both fork up some cake, and the slight moan he makes shoots straight between my legs.
“Don’t eat cake a lot?” I ask.
