Chapter 9
Sela
My lips wouldn’t stop tingling. It didn’t matter that I was stirring a fruit sauce over low heat while half the town watched, and commented on, every shared gaze, every touch.
My lips would not stop tingling. I felt Brock’s kisses everywhere.
Even though the whole make-out session had been totally PG-rated, I felt as if his lips had marked my entire body.
Why were his kisses so addictive? And why did I lose all resolve when he was close? It was like he had some kind of good-sense blocker, so that the only thing I cared about was touching him, tasting him, and submitting to his kisses.
“Sela, the fruit is bubbling.” His deep voice whispered in my ear and sent a lightning bolt of lust straight through my body.
“Right, the fruit.” I ignored his low, amused chuckle.
“Honey, I’d be distracted too if that man was brushing up against me like that,” Edith said, drawing laughter from the crowd.
“What can I say,” I shot back with a smile I hoped didn’t show my heightened state of arousal, “a man who can cook pie is smokin’ hot, am I right?”
The crowd agreed in the form of hollers and whistles. “Next year we have to make this a shirtless competition for the men,” Edith suggested.
“And the women,” Mr. Halloran added indignantly. “Fair is fair.”
The old-timers bantered back and forth, serving as the perfect distraction while I helped Brock get the pies in the oven. “Do you think ten cherry pies is enough?”
He’d made cherry pies. For me. Damn it, I didn’t want to be affected by that, but I was.
It was more than Adam had ever done for me, or any other man, honestly, which was really pathetic.
Stop thinking about Adam. He doesn’t matter.
“I hope ten is enough.” My eyes widened.
“What if it’s not, and I lose by default? ”
His lips curled into a slow smile as he leaned in close. “You won’t lose.”
I stood there frozen by his nearness, the scent of cherry on his breath, and the gleam in his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I’m telling you not to lose. Go and win, Sela. Win.”
I opened my mouth to tell him that he couldn’t just order me to win, but his mouth was so close that my body shut down for a full minute. “Pretty sure it doesn’t work like that,” I managed to say in a breathless whisper.
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” His lips were a breath away from my own, and I was certain he was about to kiss me.
“This match is mine, ladies!”
I took a step back. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
He nodded. “Later, then. Now go win. That’s an order.”
I turned away and headed to the long row of tables where the pies had already started to cool.
Brock’s words still echoed in my ears. Later, then.
He said those words, he’d actually said them.
Out loud. How in the hell was I supposed to vanquish more pies than anyone else with that on my mind?
I couldn’t focus on Mayor Stevens’ spiel about the contest, community, and Thanksgiving because I was too occupied with that promise of later.
What did it mean? That we’d pick up that kiss later? That later we would do more than kiss? More importantly, did I want to do more than kiss? Did I even want to kiss him again? Obviously, yes, which of course made it a terrible idea.
“Shake it off,” I whispered to myself and adjusted in my seat.
I needed to focus on the pies. The warm, delicious cherry pies that Brock had made for me because I told him cherry was my favorite.
Or because he wants to win. Both were equally possible.
“Focus, damn it.” I looked left and then right, thankful I wasn’t behind—yet—and dove into the first pie as soon as the whistle blew.
I grabbed the large spoon and dug in, moaning as the first few bites hit my taste buds.
It was cherry, of course, a blend of sweet and sour, but the hint of orange and rum made it easy to keep eating.
Well, the rum and the fact that I hadn’t eaten all day.
They were good pies. Really good. The kind of good that would impress a woman if she was looking to be impressed, which I wasn’t.
Not at all, and certainly not by some rich dude who could seemingly do it all.
Make money.
Cook.
Kiss like the devil.
Make me laugh.
No! I refused to let those thoughts burrow deep in my mind or my heart. Nope, no way. Eat the pie. Eat more pie. That was my only focus, not the hands that made the pie and not the man. Just the delicious flavors as they hit my tongue, over and over. And over.
I vaguely heard the mayor as she kept a running commentary of the contest, which had only three contestants remaining, and I was one of them. Okay, just keep eating. You can afford to eat another pie. Just one more and then another.
“Sure you want to keep going,” the guy next to me asked with a laugh. I refused to acknowledge him, and he laughed louder. “A hot thing like you should be more worried about her figure.”
I gave him a long side-eye but never stopped eating. I finished another pie even as he slowed down, wasting a few seconds on a victorious smile.
“It’s official, folks, we have a winner!”
My heart sank as I dropped the fork and looked up, scanning the table in search of the winner. The guy beside me rubbed his belly and groaned. Linda, the police dispatcher, flashed a grin and shook her head, which meant she hadn’t won either.
“Stand up, Sela!” The mayor chuckled. “Congratulations. That must’ve been some pie.”
The crowd laughed, and I willed my cheeks not to turn bright red under her insinuation.
“I won?” I looked around for confirmation.
“I won!” Excitement bubbled up, and I couldn’t help but jump up and down.
“I won!” It wasn’t a big deal, winning a pie-eating contest, but maybe I just needed a win, any win right now.
My heart raced, and my smile was so big I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried.
Somehow I managed to wipe my mouth and push away from the table. My legs shook as I met the mayor and Brock on the stage and accepted the prize for winning the whole damn contest.
A bottle of rum, because rum was Thanksgiving? In Holiday Grove, up was sometimes down, so I didn’t question it, at least until Brock and I were alone. “Rum?”
He tossed his head back and laughed, and I was momentarily struck by just how beautiful he was.
His black hair glinted under the golden streetlight, and when he smiled, he took my breath away.
He shrugged. “Why not rum? It goes well with the flavors of Thanksgiving, like cinnamon and anise, orange and cranberry.”
“Fair point,” I laughed. “I can’t believe we won!” I was still so excited I practically bounced on my heels.
“You must’ve really liked my pies.” His tone was teasing and light, mildly flirtatious.
I stopped and turned to him, my expression suddenly serious.
“Brock, they were incredible. I don’t know when a guy like you finds time to perfect his cherry pie recipe, but my stomach thanks you.
Of course, my stomach, thighs, and ass will probably curse you for the next few weeks, but you have to take the good with the bad. Right?”
“I happen to like your stomach, thighs, and ass.”
My breath caught, not so much at his words, but at the heated look in his gray eyes. “Yeah, sure,” I brushed off his words. “Celebratory drink?”
“Nothing else I’d rather do.” His words came out low and deep. It sent tingles down my spine.
I cleared my suddenly very dry throat. “Okay. Good.” My palms were sweaty because I was nervous, and I was nervous because this was a bad idea.
No, it was worse than a bad idea; it was playing with fire.
Brock and heavy-proof rum was a bad idea, especially when I already wanted him more than I was willing to admit to myself.
Brock spoke first when we got to my place. “You can uninvite me inside.” He spoke slowly, his words soft and slightly amused.
“Why would I do that?” Probably because that was the smart choice, rescinding the invitation and sending him home. Smart choice.
His brows rose, and his lips pulled into a lopsided grin. “No reason. Shall we?”
“Yep.” I nodded and unlocked the door, kicking off my shoes before I made a beeline for my kitchen. I had to get glasses and ice, of course, but I also needed distance. Just for a few minutes.
“Do I make you nervous, Sela?” His deep voice was right in my ear, and I was too startled to stop the shiver as it made my whole body quiver.
“No,” I stammered. “Why do you ask?” My breath caught when his large hands settled on my shoulders and his chest brushed against my back.
“Because you’re shaking. Your breathing is shallow, and your skin is warm to the touch.” He spun me around. “A drink?”
I couldn’t form words, so I just nodded.
“Excellent.” He took a step back and reached behind me for two glasses. “I kind of like that I make you nervous.” He poured two healthy glasses and set one in my hand.
“I never agreed that you make me nervous.” He did, of course, because he was handsome and funny and charming. Because he was nice.
He grinned and sipped the rum. “That’s right. You didn’t.”
I took a long, slow sip until the burn settled in my gut. “But out of curiosity, why would you like it?”
Brock shrugged. “Because I like that you see me how I am. You’re attracted to me, but you don’t want to be, which means I believe your attraction is real. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.”
“Nope.” I shook my head and took another sip. “Don’t want to hear that at all.”
He laughed. “Too much truth.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I took another sip, longer and bigger this time. “Honesty makes you too attractive.”
He laughed again, and the sound was too deep and too honeyed. It slid right down my spine and wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer to him like metal shavings to a magnet. “Hey.” His gray eyes darkened as he set down his glass and rested his hands low on my hips.