“I think I just had really low expectations for a princess cake,” he says, his eyes twinkling, “and it’s surprisingly good.”
“It’s the crunch layer,” I say, happy to speak about my favorite topic. “Life’s too short for bad cake. If I were the kind of person who wastes time crafting, I’d stitch that onto a pillow or something.”
There’s a humph behind the bar, and I know before looking that Laura has another bee in her proverbial bonnet. “I run the stitch and bitch club,” she says haughtily. “We only accept members who have already completed ten stitching projects.”
“Sounds like a blast.” I glance down the bar, where there’s at least one person trying to wave her down. I point to the guy with my fork. “Looks like you got a customer.”
“Have you tried the cappuccino yet?” she asks sweetly.
“I knew she spat in it,” I mutter to myself as she walks off.
Apparently I spoke more loudly than I intended, because Cole frowns at me. “She did what?”
He actually looks like he means to give Laura a talking-to about the whole cappuccino thing. Or maybe he’s just worried about the fate of his own coffee. Either way, I need to put a pin in it. One restaurant brawl is enough for a night. “Just a theory” I say. “Anyway…your daughter…”
To be honest, I don’t know jackshit about kids besides having been one once. So I settle for saying, “If she’s anything like you, she’s going to give those rich assholes a run for their money. They won’t know what hit them.”
A slow smile stretches across his face. “From your mouth to God’s ears, Holly Mayberry.”
I take a look at him, soaking in those brown eyes filled with trouble, surrounded by lashes that are blessedly thick. And his mouth with that short beard around it. Cole has a nice mouth, even if only bullshit comes out of it three quarters of the time. There’s a smear of frosting on his lower lip, and I can’t help myself—or maybe I just don’t want to—I reach over and wipe it off.
His eyes round with surprise, but then I see something else in them, a heat that’s just for me.
Cole doesn’t date. Everyone knows that. Just like we all know that he only has fun with tourists—women who won’t—and can’t—matter. He especially doesn’t want to date me. He’s made a point of telling me so, in ways both overt and subtle, for years. So I’m not sure why I lift my hand to my mouth and suck thefrosting off slowly, my eyes holding his while I lick down the sweetness.
“Mmm,” I say. “Tasty.”
“Fuck, Holly,” he says, his voice low and guttural.
“That an invitation?” I ask, giving him a look.
I’m probably being stupid, but I crave a little fun after what happened earlier, and I know he can give methat. He won’t call me sweetie or hold my hand or give me a ring—he’s not a mayonnaise-chip sandwich like Matt—but I’ll bet he can make me come two or three times in one night, and right now that sounds about as good as princess cake.
And, sure, there’s a part of me that remembers a time when Cole was more to me than the asshole I like sparring with—when he was the guy I used to fantasize about when I played MASH in my notebook during English class, because talkingThe Scarlet Letterto death doesn’t make it any less dull. The only thing that would have was if Hester Prynne wreaked revenge on those puritanical fuckers, and—
What was I saying?
Yes, anyway, I remember feeling that way, but those were the fantasies of a little girl, and I’m a woman who knows more about the ways of the world, and about the lure of sex and cake and former bad boys who look like they know their way around a vagina.
Besides, why choose between sex and cake? Maybe we can eat the cake while we’re sprawled naked in my room. Yes, I like the sound of that…
And, just like that, Cole’s getting to his feet.
“Are we leaving so soon?” I ask. The comment is sort of glib, sort of not. I don’t actually think he was so inspired to bring me home he leapt to his feet, but if he did, I’m game.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” he says. “You intend on following me?”
“Do you want me to?” I ask, waggling my brows.
He gives me another of those rueful looks and says, “No, Holly. I don’t want you to follow me into the men’s room. Why don’t you stay here and eat your cake?”
Why do I feel like a kid who’s been given a pat on the head and a participation award? I’ll just bet Laura’s giving me a smug look from behind the bar. Maybe she’ll even do a cross-stitch about it.
“What if I want something else to eat?” I ask, challenging him.
He swears under his breath, then gestures to a menu lying on a bar. “I’m sure Laura will help you out, but I can’t guarantee there won’t be saliva in it.”
A laugh spills out of me, and I see it again—a gleam of attraction in his eyes.
