Page 118 of With a Cherry On Top

“Oooh. Winner winner, chicken dinner,” Ian calls from beside me.

“Anotherredhead? You have a problem,” Kyle chimes in, immediately looking away when I glare.

“Yeah, she’s cute, but . . . not her.”

Amelie smacks my arm. “Cute? Look at that body.”

“Maybe a bit young,” Shane muses.

I barely process Primrose questioning how Shane can tell from her back alone as Kyle declares, “Bachelor’s decision.”

After a careful look at me, Logan raises his thumb like a Roman emperor at an execution.

Well,shit.

A chorus of “Come on,” and “Get up!” pushes me forward as Amelie says I should only come back a winner. I stand and move, unable to look away from her backless dress. It’s her. It’s gotta be her.

I step closer and her friend notices me first, gesturing that someone is behind her before walking away. She turns, and my breath catches in my throat as dark green eyes lock onto mine.

“Chef?”

“Charlotte.”

She turns fully, and the sight of her knocks the air from my lungs. The dress clings to her, the fabric flowing down her frame and the neckline plunging just enough to be devastating. She’s holding a vibrant cocktail with a maraschino cherry floating at the top.

She looks stunning, unreal, like these few days apart only made her more irresistible, and for a moment, my brain is absolutemush.

I swallow hard. “You look . . . incredible.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers toy with the hem of her dress, the material shifting beneath her touch and skimming over her curves.

“It’s one of yours, isn’t it? The dress?”

“A new one.” She pulls slightly, smoothing it over her hip. “I was thinking about you when I made it.”

Green, my favorite color. The same deep, rich green as her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity. “Oh, wait. The bachelor party, right?”

“With a splash of divorce celebrations.”

She hums. “Sounds interesting.”

“Trust me, it is.” I take a breath, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume—floral, devastating.Howis she here? I still can’t believe it.

“What?”

“Nothing, just . . . I’m surprised you’re here.”

She must catch on to what I’m thinking, because her eyes roll. “I’m notstalkingyou, Chef. I came with some of the people from the show.”

“I wouldn’t mind you stalking me,” I say, enjoying the smile that blooms on her lips. Her poker face has been slipping more and more.

“So . . . whereisyour party?” she asks, looking around.

“They sent me on a mission. I’m supposed to, you know, hit on you.”

“Oh?” Her lips curve in amusement as she hooks one arm around my neck, pulling me a fraction closer. “On me, really?”

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