Page 26 of Make My Heart Malt

“You too. Stop by anytime.”

When I’m at the next house, I'm confident this one is hers. Not only by the process of elimination but also because her lights are on, and she never leaves her lights on. Plus the “Welcome! Did you bring booze?” door mat screams Dessa.

I raise my hand and knock. With the container of cookies firmly in my grip, I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer.

THIRTEEN

BREAKUP DRINKS

Dessa

I’m mid-pour when a knock on the front door startles me, causing some of the vodka to spill on the counter. Shit. I set the bottle down and throw a rag over the vodka. I’ll take care of that later. When I reach the door, I peek through the peephole. My heart jumps to my throat at the sight of Garrett standing on the other side. Of course, he looks hot as ever in his backwards baseball hat and hoodie that stretches over his broad chest. One look at him makes all my negative feelings toward him evaporate, but he doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. What he did was inexcusable. Maybe I should even the score and ghost him. I spin on my heel and make it two steps before he knocks again.

“Dessa. I know you’re home. Your lights are on. You never leave lights on.”

Dammit. I hate that he still remembers so much about me. One time, or many times, in high school, he picked me up for a baseball game and after we drove a mile down the road I asked him to turn around because I’d left my bedroom light on. Of course, he did it with no hesitation because that’s the type of guy he is.

“Plus, I’ve already been to every other house on this street except this one. So, I know it’s yours.”

After a few seconds of silence, I think he may have left, so I go back to the front door and peer through the peephole again. Nope. He’s still standing on my doorstep, facing away from me. He spins around and closes one eye to look at the peephole.

Panic sets in and I jerk away, thinking he can see me.

“I’m not leaving until you open the door. I’m prepared to camp out here all night if I have to. But so you're aware, it is getting cold and there's a good chance hypothermia will set in by morning. And I have my mom’s cookies. Not made by me this time, but you can only have them if you open the door.”

I shake my head and wipe the small smile off my lips. He can’t know I find him slightly amusing. I yank open the door and cross my arms over my chest. “You think the good cookies will fix the years of hurt and betrayal?”

His eyes go wide for a brief second, probably surprised I opened the door for him, then his features soften. “It’s a peace offering.” He holds out the container for me.

I eye him and then the cookies before snatching it from his hands.

“Maybe we can finally sit and talk. Oh! And this.” He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a tiny white flag on a stick. He waves it back and forth. “I surrender. I’m sorry I was an asshole all those years ago. I know it’s inexcusable, but I'd still like to talk.”

I blow out a breath and step out of the doorway and wave my hand, motioning for him to come inside.

This is a bad idea. Close quarters with Garrett Dawson is a temptation I don’t have enough restraint to fight. It’s already happened once. Too late now. The corners of his lips tip up into a smile as he walks past me. His citrus and amber scent wafts around me, causing my nipples to pebble. I close the door behind him and stroll through the living room and into the open dining room and kitchen while Garrett follows close behind. I set the cookies on the counter.

His gaze wanders around my kitchen island filled with bottles of rum, vodka, whiskey, tequila, a variety of mixers, and slices of lemons and limes. He takes his time studying everything on the counter before taking a seat on a stool on the opposite side of me. “What’s happening here?”

“I’m experimenting.”

“And what’s this?” He reaches across the counter and pulls my recipe notebook toward him.

I snatch it back before he can flip through it. “My recipes.”

“And that’s full?”

I nod. “Almost. I’ll have to start a new one soon.”

“Wow.” He nods.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “While you’re here, you can serve a dual purpose and taste test for me.”

Plus, this conversation will be less awkward with alcohol. And even less awkward because I won’t be the only one drinking.

“Okay.” He rests his palms on the counter. “Hit me with your best drink.”

I tap my chin, deciding what to make. With a bottle of vodka in hand, I pour an ounce into two copper mugs, followed by apple cider and ginger beer. I cut two limewedges and squeeze each one into a mug. Behind me, I rummage through my spices and garnish each drink with a dash of cinnamon. When I’m finished, I slide the mug across the counter to Garrett.

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