Too late. Sweatbeaded on Zach’s skin. No, he hadn’t fallen for Isabelle. But he did like his self-proclaimed realist who was in a panic over hocus-pocus, love-potion cinnamon bread.
Snatching the piece back that she’d wrangled from him, he stuck it in his mouth, enjoying the sweetness and the look of horror on her face. Realist, his foot.
“I think it’s happening.” He clutched at his chest and carried on as if something major was developing within his ribcage. “Quick, give me more bread.”
“You shouldn’t eat that, Zach.” She moved the bread behind her, trying to keep the loaf out of his reach. “You don’t know what you’re messing with. The Butterflies… they don’t play fair when it comes to matchmaking.”
Laughing, Zach reached behind her, easily breaking off a chunk. They both knew the bread’s supposed power was as fake as the plastic Christmas tree chiming another merry tune.
“Are my pupils heart-shaped yet?” Grinning, he batted his lashes.
Sighing, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“Aw, come on, Blondie.” He held the morsel toward her. “Take a bite. It’s good.”
Forehead crinkled, her lips parted, probably to reprimand him some more, but Zach took full advantage by popping the treat into her mouth.
“Now, let’s see if that sweetens your disposition.”
He’d expected her to close her eyes and savor the baked goodie as he had. Instead, she froze, a cringe on her otherwise lovely face. When she just sat there staring at him, he reached around and took the loaf from her lax fingers.
“It’s bread, Blondie. Nothing more. Unless… Does the bread work both ways? Is that it?” he teased, loving the rising color in her cheeks. “One bite and you’re going to succumb to my lackluster smarm, after all? Here, have another piece. The entire loaf, even.”
“This isn’t funny,” she stammered in a muffled voice.
Reaching for one of the napkins, she covered her mouth. Had she just spat out the bread? Surely, she didn’t believe the bread was anything more than a tasty combo of flour, sugar, butter, and cinnamon?
“Are realists superstitious?” She could claim whatever she wanted, but a dreamer lurked within her, waiting to be let out and given free rein.
She gave him one of her loaded glares. The one that said she’d really like him to hitch a ride to the North Pole and stay there. “Did I mention that I’m a cautious realist and don’t take unnecessary chances?”
“If it’s only the guy who falls, you have nothing to fear. I’ll sacrifice myself by disposing of the entire loaf to keep you safe.” He waggled his brows. “White knight material all the way.”
Eating the delicious bread would be no chore. He didn’t believe such tomfoolery as love-potion sweets. Even if he did believe and fell, he’d never let Isabelle know. To do that would be too complicated. He was too complicated.
“Because you could never fall for someone like me?”
He’d expected some wisecrack. Instead, the vulnerability was back in her softly asked question and in the big blue eyes studying him. The urge to take her into his arms and hold her until every self-doubt she’d ever had melted away hit, shocking him yet again that he wanted to hug her. She was so tough and ready to fight, and yet, her question revealed a fragility that had him ready to armor up in her defense.
“Any man could fall for you, Isabelle. No hocus-pocus, love-potion bread needed.” His gaze locked with hers. Who had hurt her? What kind of idiot tore down a woman of her caliber? “You’re smart, sassy, quick-witted, and beautiful.”
He kept all teasing from his tone, wanting to build her up for whomever would come down the road and could be the kind of man she deserved.
“I… thank you.” Pink tinged her cheeks and rather than say anything further, she began popping open the containers of their food. “I hope you like chicken salad, but if not, there’s some of Ruby’s sausage balls you liked so much at Jeannie’s tree-decorating party.” She opened a plastic Christmas tree-shaped container. “Oh, and what Christmas picnic would be complete without a cheeseboard?”
Sure enough, the plastic tree container was filled with slices of cheese, rolled up pieces of turkey and ham as garland, plus a variety of fruits and vegetables as ornaments.
“There’s more fruit,” she continued, opening a small container. “Strawberries made into tiny Santa heads with whipped cream.”
Zach’s stomach rumbled in appreciation. He’d gone on a few picnics with his parents and brother growing up, but his memories were of businessmen in their golfing garb, women in their finery, and overdressed kids who were expected to sit quietly in the sweltering sun while eating dainty snack foods that weren’t that appetizing. Nothing like what Isabelle’s sister and the Butterflies had prepared.
“Christmas picnics are officially my favorite type of picnics. Let’s eat.”
*
“There’s an elderlywoman in a camo hoodie watching us from eleven o’clock.”
Belly full from eating too much, Isabelle twisted in the direction Zach mentioned.
