He nodded. “Later, then. Now go win. That’s an order.”
I turned away and headed to the long row of tables where the pies had already started to cool. Brock’s words still echoed in my ears.Later, then.He said those words, he’dactuallysaid them. Out loud. How in the hell was I supposed to vanquish more pies than anyone else with that on my mind? I couldn’tfocus on Mayor Stevens’ spiel about the contest, community, and Thanksgiving because I was too occupied with that promise oflater.
What did it mean? That we’d pick up that kiss later? That later we would domorethan kiss? More importantly, did I want to do more than kiss? Did I even want to kiss him again?Obviously, yes,which of course made it a terrible idea.
“Shake it off,” I whispered to myself and adjusted in my seat. I needed to focus on the pies. The warm, delicious cherry pies that Brock had made for me because I told him cherry was my favorite.Or because he wants to win.Both were equally possible. “Focus, damn it.” I looked left and then right, thankful I wasn’t behind—yet—and dove into the first pie as soon as the whistle blew.
I grabbed the large spoon and dug in, moaning as the first few bites hit my taste buds. It was cherry, of course, a blend of sweet and sour, but the hint of orange and rum made it easy to keep eating. Well, the rumandthe fact that I hadn’t eaten all day. They were good pies. Really good. The kind of good that would impress a woman if she was looking to be impressed, which I wasn’t. Not at all, and certainly not by some rich dude who could seemingly do it all.
Make money.
Cook.
Kiss like the devil.
Make me laugh.
No!I refused to let those thoughts burrow deep in my mind or my heart. Nope, no way. Eat the pie. Eat more pie. That was my only focus, not the hands that made the pie and not the man. Just the delicious flavors as they hit my tongue, over and over. And over.
I vaguely heard the mayor as she kept a running commentary of the contest, which had only three contestants remaining, andI was one of them.Okay, just keep eating. You can afford to eat another pie. Just one more and then another.
“Sure you want to keep going,” the guy next to me asked with a laugh. I refused to acknowledge him, and he laughed louder. “A hot thing like you should be more worried about her figure.”
I gave him a long side-eye but never stopped eating. I finished another pie even as he slowed down, wasting a few seconds on a victorious smile.
“It’s official, folks, we have a winner!”
My heart sank as I dropped the fork and looked up, scanning the table in search of the winner. The guy beside me rubbed his belly and groaned. Linda, the police dispatcher, flashed a grin and shook her head, which meant she hadn’t won either.
“Stand up, Sela!” The mayor chuckled. “Congratulations. That must’ve been some pie.”
The crowd laughed, and I willed my cheeks not to turn bright red under her insinuation.
“I won?” I looked around for confirmation. “I won!” Excitement bubbled up, and I couldn’t help but jump up and down. “I won!” It wasn’t a big deal, winning a pie-eating contest, but maybe I just needed a win, any win right now. My heart raced, and my smile was so big I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried.
Somehow I managed to wipe my mouth and push away from the table. My legs shook as I met the mayor and Brock on the stage and accepted the prize for winning the whole damn contest.
A bottle of rum, because rum was Thanksgiving? In Holiday Grove, up was sometimes down, so I didn’t question it, at least until Brock and I were alone. “Rum?”
He tossed his head back and laughed, and I was momentarily struck by just how beautiful he was. His black hair glinted under the golden streetlight, and when he smiled, he took mybreath away. He shrugged. “Why not rum? It goes well with the flavors of Thanksgiving, like cinnamon and anise, orange and cranberry.”
“Fair point,” I laughed. “I can’t believe we won!” I was still so excited I practically bounced on my heels.
“You must’ve really liked my pies.” His tone was teasing and light, mildly flirtatious.
I stopped and turned to him, my expression suddenly serious. “Brock, they were incredible. I don’t know when a guy like you finds time to perfect his cherry pie recipe, but my stomach thanks you. Of course, my stomach, thighs, and ass will probably curse you for the next few weeks, but you have to take the good with the bad. Right?”
“I happen to like your stomach, thighs, and ass.”
My breath caught, not so much at his words, but at the heated look in his gray eyes. “Yeah, sure,” I brushed off his words. “Celebratory drink?”
“Nothing else I’d rather do.” His words came out low and deep. It sent tingles down my spine.
I cleared my suddenly very dry throat. “Okay. Good.” My palms were sweaty because I was nervous, and I was nervous because this was a bad idea. No, it was worse than a bad idea; it was playing with fire. Brock and heavy-proof rum was a bad idea, especially when I already wanted him more than I was willing to admit to myself.
Brock spoke first when we got to my place. “You can uninvite me inside.” He spoke slowly, his words soft and slightly amused.
“Why would I do that?” Probably because that was the smart choice, rescinding the invitation and sending him home. Smart choice.
