9. Kiara
nine
Kiara
I ’m a little nervous about going to Colton’s tonight. I’m telling myself it’s because I’m testing a new holiday dessert on him that I’ll be making for Chloe’s Nook. It’s a tower of cream puffs filled with an orange spice cream, dipped in white chocolate, sprinkled with crushed candied ginger and pistachio, and arranged on a spiced gingerbread base to look like a Christmas tree.
I made a tiny one just for the two of us.
Colton is a discerning taster. Over the years, I’ve taught him to appreciate the balance of flavors and textures. Sweet and sour, soft and crunchy. Then I introduced unexpected ingredients without telling him—like a vegan chocolate mousse that uses avocado instead of eggs.
It’s been fun to see him open up his culinary expectations and horizons. I credit him for helping me perfect my almond biscotti by pointing out they missed a hint of bitterness, which prompted me to add a touch of espresso powder.
But who am I kidding?
The real reason I’m nervous today is not my Noel Puff Tree.
It’s Colton. More specifically, it’s me in regard to Colton and everything that in an alternate universe he could be, but in this life, shouldn’t.
I knock on the door and let myself into his apartment. He’s not sitting on the couch like he usually is, so I set my towering dessert on his kitchen counter. “Yo,” I call out. The smell of pizza heating in the oven hits me just right, like old times (those being last week and before), and I relax. This will be a normal evening.
A shuffling sound comes from behind me. “Hey,” he says.
I turn right in time to see him coming from the general vicinity of the bathroom, pulling on a T-shirt, his bare midsection showing. I glance away, pretending to check on the pizza. By the time I turn back he’s in my space, the scent of shampoo and clean laundry like a warm blanket around me.
He clears his throat like he’s a little tense. “Beer?” he asks as he reaches behind me to open the fridge.
Although I’m attuned enough to him to feel something’s bothering him, I’m also acutely aware of how good he smells right now.
I put some security space between us. “Sure,” I answer.
He passes me a bottle, pops his open, and takes a long gulp. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and I’m pretty sure at this point he’s making a conscious effort not to look me in the eye.
“Pizza seems ready,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, just takes another swish of his beer.
Something’s not right.
I take the pizza out of the oven, set it on the range, and grab two dinner plates from the cupboard right above. What’s up with Colt? He’s lost in his thoughts. I put three slices on one plate that I hand him and one slice on the other.
“Couch or kitchen?” I ask him.
He sets the plate on the countertop and takes another swig of beer.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about first. Ask you.” He takes a deep breath and I can tell he’s hesitating.
Finally he looks at me, his gaze flinching a little. I fight the attraction I still feel, the lingering memory of the kiss and the fake dating and how good it all felt. I focus on him instead of me, trying to assess what’s got him tongue-tied.
And then I get it.
He probably realized he can’t stand the idea of going to the engagement party with me, but he’s too nice to simply tell me. He wants to ask me if it’s okay. And how sweet is that?
I crack a big smile at him, resisting the urge to give him a side hug. “Of course you’re off the hook for the engagement! Goes without saying. I’ll tell Grams—”
“I think we should date,” he blurts out.
I frown. Like fake dating but every day, here in Emerald Creek? Why? “I’ll tell Grams we broke up,” I finish my sentence.
“I think we should date for real,” he repeats, clarifying.
My mouth goes dry, and something sharp hits me right below the ribcage. Panic and disbelief. A touch of hope, quickly killed off. I huff. “Yeah, right. Very funny.” I step away from him to the other side of the kitchen island and try to laugh, to show him how comical he is, but my efforts stay strangled in my throat.
“I’m serious,” he says, his eyebrows shooting up.
He’s kidding, right? The reason I’m not laughing is that, some time Saturday night, I lost my sense of humor when it comes to Colton. “You don’t date,” I counter, my eyes dropping to the logo on his T-shirt. I tear a bite off my pizza to show him how unmoved I am. That I really take this for what it is—a joke. Even if I’m not laughing.
He narrows his eyes on me. “With you I would.”
It’s like a rock hits the bottom of my stomach. Dinners and movies and stuff with Colton? And cuddling and kissing and… all the rest? “Yeah, right,” is all I seem to be able to say, again. I set the pizza down and grab the countertop for purchase.
He rounds the island and takes both my hands in his. Paralyzed for a moment, I try to pull away from his grasp but only succeed in having him tighten his grip. “I like you. I like spending time with you.” His mouth morphs into a delicious smile. “I liked kissing you. I think we should give this a try.”
And that’s the problem. Giving it a try, knowing it could go either way. I can’t take that risk.
“Nu-huh. Nope. Not a chance.”
He frowns, looking completely confused. “Why not?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Exactly! We’re… great together.”
Desperation bubbles to the surface of my brain. If I can’t shut this down right away, I’m in for a world of pain. It’s written all over Colton’s strong features, in the depths of his irises, in the tilt of his mouth. I will never get over him. “It would ruin our friendship.”
“Um. No. It would make our relationship stronger.”
Oh, Colton. You don’t want a relationship with me. I’m just convenient because I’m right there. No work involved. “Not in a million years.” He’s probably only moderately attracted to me, physically—and who can blame him. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he have made a move earlier?
Without dropping my hands entirely, he releases his grip on me, but I stay in his warmth, in his touch. Because when will this happen again? Never. And he’s that good. Feels that good. Looks that good.
“Why?” he asks again, the defeat in his tone nearly undoing me. “I-the other night I-I know I said I was sorry I kissed you, but I wasn’t. Maybe that makes me a pig and I’m sorry if it does. But I think… I thought there was something there, and I—”
“We’d lose each other as friends,” I stop him before he says something that might convince me. Dating Colton would be a terrible, terrible idea. He’s way too… too everything for me. Too good. Too kind. Too strong.
I almost died when he pretended to kiss me—even if now he’s suggesting he wasn’t really pretending.
The truth is, I could never live up to his expectations. Sooner or later, he’d grow tired of me. He’d say something like, “Hey, Kiara, this was fun, but I like us better as friends.” And I wouldn’t survive that. I would lose myself and be a zombie inside for the rest of my days.
“I disagree,” he states but steps away from me, hands on his hips.
“You’re just being lazy.” I push him, hoping this will settle it.
“Excuse me?” He grabs his empty beer bottle and throws it in the recycling trash can, where it lands with a crash.
I got him angry. That’s good. Should send us right where we belong: in the friend zone. “You only want to date me because that would require no effort on your part,” I explain. “I’m right here, we’re already friends, there would be no courting needed,” I say like that’s a disgusting thing. “No getting to know each—”
“Are you saying I just want to fuck?”
The word in his mouth doesn’t sound as offensive as he’s trying to make it. It’s actually… arousing. Despite the armor I’ve built to get people to believe I’m tough and shit, I’m shocked that Colton would want any level of intimate involvement with me.
The heat seeping from his gaze almost convinces me to give in. To say “Hey, yeah, let’s jump each other’s bones. Get it out of our system so we can get back to normal.”
But that’s the problem. For Colton, it might be a matter of scratching an itch the maybe-not-so-fake kiss created. Of exploring options, making sure no stone is left unturned in this difficult dating landscape we’re in. And it makes sense. I get it. For someone like Colton, who’s solid in his self-acceptance, it’s even pretty smart.
For me? It’s the opposite. I know myself enough to realize that I have major abandonment issues. In other words, my daddy problems are more acute than for others. I follow this relationship specialist on social media and this is all she talks about, and every time I hear her, it’s like she’s talking specifically to me although she has tens of thousands of followers. It’s hard for me to trust, and it’s hard for me to love myself, and it’s hard for me to let people in.
But I’m proud of myself for knowing this about me—many people don’t.
And this is why I can’t be the kind of person who’d leap at the suggestion of giving dating Colton a try. If I were wired differently, I’d already have my hands around his neck, his mouth would be on mine, and in three seconds or less I’d have my legs wrapped around his hips as he carried me to his bedroom.
The thought increases my arousal, so my brain tries to course-correct by wondering if he has the dark blue or gray sheets on this week. (I notice his unmade bed on the way to his bathroom, and I know he rotates his sheets weekly.) Unfortunately, the thought of Colton’s bed (especially the particular way in which it’s rumpled—Colton never makes his bed) does nothing to calm me down.
Neither does the way he glowers at me, fists on his hips, jaw tense, chest heaving.
The way his jeans and T-shirt strand on his muscles, calling my attention to all the deliciousness barely hidden there, right within my reach.
The way his last words hang between us, “Are you saying I just want to fuck?”
Suddenly I’m terrified, and I don’t know what to say to make it right. I don’t know how to act around Colton to keep him as my friend. Snapshots of the past flash before my eyes like emotional scars—catching my dad lying, catching David cheating. It’s a terrifying déjà vu of the times I messed up with the men who meant the most to me.
Although I recognize Colton is not betraying me, I can’t escape the fear that every man who matters to me ends up leaving me, no matter what I do. Maybe if I can dial back time, this time I can fix it.
Desperate times require desperate measures.
My answer snaps through the air. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He huffs, pain registering in his eyes.
“See? It’s already messing with our friendship,” I say, my gaze unable to hold his. “Can we pretend none of this ever happened?” I say as I walk to the door. “I’m just gonna go home.”
I leave without waiting for his answer, hoping he understands I’m not rejecting him. I’m only trying to preserve our friendship. And selfishly, my heart .