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“You did?”
“But,” she continues onward like I didn’t ask for more information, “figured I’d swing by when I could so that we could keep our other tradition going.”
Awe wastes no time sinking into my stare. “You brought us cake to share?”
“Cupcakes this time due to the fact I figured we’d be eating them in here.” She sweetly smiles at the same time she points to the crunched container on the floor. “That would be them.”
I guilty wince at the ruined treat. “Tá an-bhrón orm a ghrá.”
Harper offers me an adoring smile. “You really must be if you’re saying it in Irish.”
Additional culpability catches me around the neck choking out any other words I can think of to convey how sorry I am for fucking up her gift.
Small snickers are given during the waving of index finger. “Babe, it’s fine. Just grab the box so we can at least try them together.” Her grin grows impish. “Or more accurately so you can eat the cake and I can enjoy the frosting.”
Laughter leaves me as I reach for the package. “You’ve done that since you were kid, I’m guessing.”
“Primarily eat the frosting and very little of the cake? Yes.”
On a shake of my head, I put the container in the small space between us, open it up, and ask, “Are those Oreos on top?”
“No, they’re wafers that were originally shaped like records.” She leans over to look at the destroyed mess. “I spent all week hunting down a special bakery that would do them like I saw on Pinterest and when I finally placed an order, she told me I could even pick what I wanted the album to say, so I picked ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’.”
There’s no denying the way my heart swells in my chest.
“They’re lemon meringue-”
“A favorite.”
“-with maple bacon flakes.”
The sight of her gagging gets me laughing again.
“Not my thing whatsoever, but I know The King supposedly loved bacon on everything.”
“He did.”
She sticks her finger into the mess, scoops up a bit, and offers for me to taste it first.
I happily suck the treat offer her finger, hums of delight thoughtlessly leaking free. “Not bad.”
“Really?!” Harper excitedly searches for reassurance.
“Not at all.” It’s my turn to swipe up a little for her to try. “But you know what would be even better?”
“Forks?”
Slipping my digit past her lips is done in tandem with answering, “Dancing to that song.” After she smacks and gags once more over the unexpected tangy flavor, I ask, “Dance with me?”
“Always.”
“Now?”
“Where?”
“In the parking lot…”
It isn’t until I’m opening the door beside me that she realizes I’m not kidding. “Oh shit, you really meant that?”
