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Langcaster had been unusually chipper when he’d picked me up. He’d also been rather vague about where they’d gone and claimed he couldn’t remember what Cherry had bought on their excursion this morning.
All of that was some weird shit.
He had a steel trap for a brain and never forgot a thing. I relied on him so much, if he was starting to lose it, I’d have a difficult time filling his place.
The strange drive got even stranger when he stopped in the driveway, let me out and laughed—I kid you not, the man laughed—and said, “Have a nice evening, sir.” He tipped his hat, let out another chuckle and walked around to the back of the house.
“Yeah, really goddamn weird,” I said, heading toward the front door. My brain was full of all the medical issues that could possibly be the matter with Langcaster, when I set my hand on the doorknob and pushed it open.
A loud, shrill, honking sound greeted me, nearly giving me a coronary. “Surprise!” Cherry said from the stairs. She held one of those stupid party blowers in one hand while her other hand waved in the air. “Happy Birthday!” she yelled, then blew the horn again.
I gazed around the foyer quickly and saw that she’d put up a “Happy Birthday, Nick!” sign up. The “Nick” part was added on as an after thought with a large piece of paper underneath the store-bought sign.
She’d made it herself.
Red balloons sat in bunches everywhere I looked.
Even up the stairs.
“My dear, come here,” I said, walking closer to the stairway. She tilted her head, but obeyed. That was when I noticed the stunning red dress she had on.
Christ, it fit her like a glove.
Her hair was up, showing off her elegant, long neck and perfect cheekbones.
When she got down to the last step, I set my hands on her hips. “I appreciate what you’ve done. It must’ve taken a lot of work. But I don’t celebrate my birthday.”
She tilted her head to the other side and said, “What do you mean you don’t celebrate your birthday. Everyone does.” I wanted to kiss the tiny smile on her red, red lips.
“I don’t.”
To that, she rolled her eyes at me and placed her hands on my shoulders. “Well, guess what? This year you do. I cooked all freaking afternoon, and somebody better eat it. I’m not throwing all that food away,” she said, her voice extremely matter of fact.
I frowned and looked around. “You can cook?” That was when I noticed a delicious, meaty, garlic smell in the air.
“Yeah, I can cook. And you,” she said, poking me in the chest with her index finger, “are going to eat it. Even if you don’t like it. But you will totally love it because it’s awesome.”
She bent her head down and kissed me briefly.
Then she grabbed me by the hand and marched me into the dining room.
My mouth started watering—from the smell of the foodandthe way my birthday date looked. We arrived at the dining room and my jaw fell open.
The table contained a large bouquet of perfect, red roses with a very cheesy, very plastic, “Happy Birthday” sign stuck inside of it. Two place settings sat on either end of the long table.
Someone had purchased a few candle holders—with wooden roses carved into them. The candles inside of them were tall and the flames danced as we walked closer.
“This is—” I began to say before she let go of my hand and interrupted.
“Go sit down,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. “Supper’s ready.” Then she lifted up onto her tiptoes and kissed me gently on the cheek.
I watched her shimmy away from me—that ass of hers was purely unstoppable.
After she turned toward her chair, I did the same and found mine.
Not a moment later, the cook waltzed in, pushing his cart—which appeared to be full.
“You can serve the birthday boy first,” she instructed him with a smile on her face. Her voice was light and mirthful, and that alone made me happy.
