Page 43 of Perfect Pairing
“It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not,” she protested. “And I just…god, Ez. I’m so sorry you and Hansen went through that.”
And I knew she was. She’d carry this with her, feeling my pain. She was empathetic like that.
“That’s why I don’t want to celebrate my birthday,” I said. “Last year, I spent it in court finalizing my divorce from a woman who sat across from me in handcuffs and prison orange.”
Brie gasped. “That’s not a reason not to celebrate,” she said. “In fact, I think that’s all the more reasonfora celebration. To create new memories to replace those bad ones.”
“You’re far too pure for this world, honey.”
I hoped she would always stay that way, intent on seeing the bright side of everything instead of the darkness like I did.
“I’m just speaking the truth, Ez,” she said. “If I was there, I’d force you to do something fun.”
“Like what?” I asked suggestively. “Like eating you for dessert?”
“That probably could’ve been arranged,” she said with a smirk. “I was thinking more like baking some sweet treat that me, you, Hansen, and Rik could enjoy.”
“Something from Granny’s cookbook?” I asked, perking up. The idea of spending a day with her lifted my spirits considerably, even knowing it wouldn’t happen.
“Mhm,” she hummed, rising from her bed to move through her apartment. A moment later, she rested me against something on her kitchen counter and pulled said recipe book toward her. She had that juicy bottom lip trapped between her teeth as sheflipped through it, and I bit back a groan. I wanted to be the one sucking and nibbling on her like that.
“What’s your favorite dessert?” she asked, pulling me from my lust-fueled haze.
Truthfully, it had been too goddamn long since I’d last gotten laid, and I could definitely use an encounter that didn’t involve my hand.
Unfortunately, I didn’t want anyone but the woman before me. Maybe I’d grow out of it one day, but for now, it meant a lot of nights with my cock in my fist for the foreseeable future.
“I don’t know if I have one,” I answered honestly. “Dad and I were never really about sweets when I was growing up, and as a chef, you’re well aware that’s not exactly my area of expertise.”
“You should learn,” she said, still paging through the book. “For Hansen’s sake. You can’t be calling me every time there’s a cupcake emergency.”
“And why the hell not?”
Brie paused, eyes flicking up to mine. “I don’t know. Just seems like something you should do.”
“And I disagree. Why would I when I have the best pastry chef I know on speed-dial?”
Even from over three hundred miles away and through a tiny phone screen, I easily saw the flush creep up her neck and spread across her cheeks. God, I loved that blush. I wanted to press my lips to her fevered skin and warm her for entirely different reasons.
Fucking hell, Ez. Get your shit together.
“You worked at restaurants in New York City,” she said with an eye roll. “I’m hardly the best pastry chef you know.”
I only smiled serenely at her, letting her think whatever she wanted. I remembered being that young and just embarking on my career, how it felt to have people praise me and think they couldn’t possibly mean it. She’d grow into her confidence, and I hoped I was around to witness it.
The next evening—my thirty-first birthday—I had my hands buried in a bowl of ground beef and seasonings—Hansen requested meatballs for dinner—when our doorbell rang.
“Dad, will you grab that?” I hollered, hoping he’d hear me wherever he was in the house. If he was outside in the garage, I was fucked.
“Sure thing!” he shouted back, and I listened as his heavy footfalls approached the door. “Oh, hello,” he said to whoever was there. The response was too low for me to hear. “Okay, sure. Thanks.”
When he entered the kitchen, a box in his hands, my forehead scrunched in confusion.
“What is that?”
Dad shrugged. “For you.”
