Page 60 of Sister of the Bride

And as I feel the heat of his attention travel over me, I realize that I like it.

I like it a lot.

Toby grips my hips and spins me around, leaving me face-to-chest with him. I glance up and see that his gaze is rooted to the lace trim lying against the milky-white skin of my chest. His eyes narrow as he watches my breasts swell on a deep inhale. That breath catches in my throat when in one fluid motion, he grasps my waist to lift me and deposit me on the tiny counter.

“I can do my own dishes.” His voice is gravelly, and he doesn’t meet my eyes. He pauses, his hands pressing into the counter on either side of my hips, and I don’t breathe as I wait to see what he does next.

When he turns and opens the freezer, I feel his absence as much as I feel the cold air wash over me. “Ice cream?” he asks, like he wasn’t just staring at my chest with fire in his eyes.

“O-okay.” This would be an ideal time to try that honesty thing, but I can’t manage to form the words. I feel like we’re dancing on thin ice here, and I don’t know how close I want to get to the cracks.

“Mint chip, cookie dough, strawberry cheesecake, lemon sorbet, or chocolate brownie batter?” Toby asks, his head in the freezer.

“Why do you have so much ice cream?”

“I told you, sugar is my drug. And one of the perks of being an adult is that you don’t have to limit yourself. Why choose?”

And somehow, in a matter of seconds, we’ve tap-danced right back into friend land. “Cookie dough, please.”

Toby turns and levels me with a look, one eyebrow arched. It’s not smoldering Toby, though—it’s teasing Toby. Best friend Toby.

“Only if you promise you’ll eat the ice cream part and not just go on a mining expedition for the cookie dough chunks. You always leave my ice cream looking like a squirrel has been in it searching for buried acorns.”

I sigh. “Fine. Then I will also require the brownie batter and a big spoon.”

“Deal.” Toby grins, pulling out the two pints and popping the tops. He sets them down on the counter beside me, then rummages through a drawer until he finds a soup spoon.

Toby turns to the dishes, and I set about scraping my spoon through the cookie dough, then the brownie batter, crafting the perfect bite. But after a few swipes, since his back is to me, I let myself wedge the spoon deep in search of cookie dough gold.

“I know what you’re doing,” Toby says, never looking up.

“You do not,” I reply, my mouth full of cookie dough.

“I could get you a bowl, you know.”

“Nah, this is better. I can control the ratio in each bite, plus it won’t melt into soup.”

“Just don’t make yourself sick. I’m out of the barf business when it comes to you.”

“That was one time! And I was seventeen!”

“But it was enough barf for solid week. Seriously, Pip, I don’t know who told you that melting Jolly Ranchers into Smirnoff Ice was a good idea, but they should be loaded into a rocket and fired into the sun.”

My stomach roils at the memory. “Don’t remind me. You’re ruining my ice cream experience.”

“Your punishment for ruining blue raspberry for me forever.”

This is good. Toby is firmly in best friend territory right now. He’s not smoldering, nor is he shooting me looks as I sit on his counter in my bra eating two pints of ice cream.

He finishes with the dishes and reaches for my shirt, wrings it out over the sink, then lays it flat to dry on the stovetop.

When he’s done, he turns to me. “Can I get a bite?”

“Fifty-fifty?” I ask, waving the spoon over the open pints.

He cocks his head at me, his brows knitted together in mock outrage. “Pippin, you know me better than that.”

I duck my head to hide the blush I cannot contain. I focus on scooping him a heaping spoonful of brownie batter, then dig out one nugget of cookie dough from the other pint. I hold out the spoon handle first, but he doesn’t take it from me. Instead he dips his head and takes the bite directly off the spoon, his tongue swiping along the bottom of the spoon. I swallow hard, my eyes on the bob of his Adam’s apple. I know I’m not controlling my face—my eyes have gone wide, my lips parting in surprise—but at least he can’t tell that a rush of heat floods between my thighs.

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