Page 40 of Holiday Wedding
Dean’s on the opposite side of the table from me. I scoot toward him, loudly scraping my chair over the stained concrete floor, making a horrible noise. Dean winces and asks, “What’re you doing?”
“Getting closer to you,” I grunt. This chair is heavier than it appears. “They won’t believe we’re in love if we’re sitting far away from each other.”
Now I’m so close to him that our elbows touch. “We should probably hold hands.”
Dean’s eyes widen in alarm, his shoulders tensing. “Really? You think that’s necessary?”
I let out a peal of laughter. “No. I’m just messing with you.” I bump my shoulder into his, setting him swaying.
He relaxes. “I thought you were serious,” he says with a hesitant smile.
“Nope.” I lean an elbow on the table. “It might be fun pretending, though. We can make up personas for ourselves. Speak in fake accents. Create cutesy pet names for each other. Stuff like that.”
“Pet names?” he asks with a bemused twitch of his lips.
“What shall I call you? Let’s see.” I roam my gaze over him, taking in his thick dark hair, warm eyes, and broad shoulders. “Snookums? Honey bunch? Hot lips?”
“Hot lips?” Dean interjects with a laugh, the nice one, rich and deep. It echoes around the room.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that because now I’m looking at his lips, which are full and rather kissable.Wait. This is Dean I’m thinking about.
I don’t want to kiss him.
Do I?
We hate each other.
Right?
I break off my internal monologue to find Dean staring at me. “What about you?” I ask to distract myself. “What name would you give me?”
“Sweetheart,” he answers immediately, like he doesn’t have to think about it. That’s the second time he’s said that word to me.
A warm feeling I don’t want to identify washes over me. I tease, “Aww. Is that because I’m so sweet?”
“No. It’s because you like to eat sweet things.” He points to a picture on the wall. “Like cake and your secret stash of purse candy.”
I gasp, shocked someone knows about that. I thought I’d done such a good job of hiding it.
“I can’t figure you out,” he continues, eyeing me shrewdly. “You work out every day. Those bizarre exercise routines Gwen’s always complaining about—goat yoga, boot camps, aqua aerobics—and yet you stash candy in your purse, your pockets, your glove compartment. I once saw you take it out of your sock.”
“It’s because of the candy that I have to work out.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “When did you see me get it out of my sock, anyway? I didn’t think you noticed anything I do.”
“I’m always paying attention to y—”
We’re interrupted by Laura, who walks in bearing a platter with tiny cups filled with cake and frosting. I’m instantly salivating.
“Here we are,” she sings out, placing it on the table between us. “We’ve got cake on this side—vanilla, chocolate, yellow, and pink champagne.” She points to each one. “On this other side are the frostings—vanilla, chocolate, raspberry, and our seasonal flavor for Christmas, eggnog buttercream. You can mix and match them however you like.”
I’m already picking up my fork when she says, “I’ll leave you to it. Come on out if you have questions. I’ll check back later.”
Dean says a polite “thanks,” as she leaves.
I swirl raspberry frosting on my spoon and scoop up a bit of vanilla cake, then pop the mixture into my mouth. It’s so delicious that I close my eyes and let out a soft moan. When I open my eyes, Dean is staring at me with rapt fascination.
“Is it—” He clears his throat. “Is it good?”
“Good? It’s divine!” I nod to his fork, laying unused on the table. “What are you waiting for? Dig in.”
