Chapter 2
OLIVER
There are a lot of things I expect to see in my shop on a Wednesday morning. Tourists, locals, couples grabbing a treat on their lunch break. Early Valentine’s shoppers. Maybe someone buying a last-minute apology box of truffles because they fucked up.
What I do not expect is sweet, quiet Jenna Howard storming into Bliss like a pint-sized avenging angel and yelling, “Give me the biggest dick you have!”
It’s been two days and I’m still replaying it.
I lock up the shop and step out into the cool night air, the faint smell of cocoa and sugar clinging to my clothes.
Main Street is quieter at this hour, just a few cars rolling by and the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the windows.
The Pour House sign is lit at the end of the block, humming a faint neon blue.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking, my boots scuffing the pavement.
I probably should go home, eat something that isn’t leftover ganache, and sleep like a normal person.
Instead, all I can see is her standing in my shop: voluptuous curves, cheeks flushed, eyes fierce, hair slightly mussed.
Jenna Howard. And she has no idea who I am.
The thought makes me smile.
Back in high school, I was the tall, lanky kid with the crooked glasses, a face full of acne, and a mouth full of metal.
I spent most of my time hiding at the end of the hallway by the art room, sketchbook open, earbuds in.
I was more elbows and knees than coordination, always tripping over something, usually my own feet.
Jenna, on the other hand, was… Jenna.
The popular cheerleader, always in that green-and-gold uniform with a huge bow in her hair.
But she wasn’t like the others. She didn’t travel in one of those mean-girl packs, didn’t expect kids to move out of the way, or roll her eyes when someone dropped their books or tripped in front of her.
When she laughed, it was real. When a teacher called on her, she was actually paying attention.
She smelled like green apple shampoo and something soft and floral, and I used to sit behind her in homeroom, staring at the back of her head, pretending to take notes.
Everyone saw the pretty cheerleader. But I saw the quiet girl who disappeared into her books at lunch, who didn’t seem to know how amazing and beautiful she was.
And now? Now I’ve filled out. The braces are gone and so is the acne.
My jawline showed up sometime around my early twenties, along with about fifty pounds of muscle and full sleeves of intricate ink.
Europe knocked the shy kid right out of me and replaced it with a baritone voice and quiet confidence.
So, yeah, I get why she didn’t make the connection between the nerd who once dropped his entire lunch tray when she smiled at him and the guy behind the counter at Bliss. Still, I thought she would’ve recognized me.
I grin as I push open the door of The Pour House.
The bar is loud and comfortably dim, muted light spilling from industrial fixtures overhead.
The familiar scent of beer, fried food, and worn wood.
Nineties rock music thrums low from the speakers, just under the sound of clinking glasses and laughter.
“Look what the cocoa gods dragged in,” a voice calls from the pool tables.
I spot Marcus first—tall, broad, grinning—lining up a shot while Kyle and Eric stand nearby with beers in hand. They all turn as I walk in, lifting their chins in greeting.
“You’re late,” Marcus teases, sinking his ball in the corner pocket. “Just because you own your own business, you can’t show up on time?”
“Had to close up,” I answer, making my way over. “Some of us have jobs that don’t involve sitting behind a desk, staring at spreadsheets all day.”
Kyle snorts. “Says the guy who plays with chocolate for a living.”
“It’s edible art,” I correct, lifting a hand for a fist bump. “Show some respect.”
Eric claps me on the shoulder. “How’s Bliss treating you, man?”
“Good. Busy.” I grab a beer from the edge of the table, the cold bottle sweating against my palm. “Valentine’s rush has already started.”
Marcus wiggles his eyebrows. “Lots of desperate men buying last-minute chocolates for their girlfriends and wives?”
“And plenty of independent women buying their own. Those are my favorite customers.”
They laugh, and I take a pull of my beer, letting the cool burn settle in my chest.
“So,” Kyle says, leaning back against the wall, “this true or did I hear wrong? Some girl came into your shop yelling about a dick?”
I choke slightly and cough, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “A chocolate dick. And word travels fast.”
Marcus grins. “It’s a small town, man. What do you expect?”
Eric looks amused. “Dude, is this a thing you offer now? Custom cocks?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “It was a special request.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Special how?”
I picture Jenna again, cheeks pink and eyes flashing as she demanded retribution in confectionery form. The corner of my mouth curls into a smirk. “Spiteful. And kind of impressive.”
Marcus barks out a laugh. “Who was it?”
I take another drink, considering my options. I could play it off, or I could tell them and let the teasing commence. But, because they’re going to find out anyway, I answer truthfully. “Jenna. Jenna Howard.”
For a beat, there’s stunned silence. Then all three of them start talking over each other.
“Hold up—”
“No fucking way—”
“Cheerleader Jenna?”
“The girl who had your balls in a jar?”
Marcus drops the cue ball onto the felt with a dull thud. “As in, the Jenna you were in love with for like… all four years of high school?”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t in love with her. And no one had my damn balls in a jar.”
“You drew her in your sketchbook,” Kyle counters. “Like, a lot.”
Eric nods, smirking. “Pretty sure we had to stage an intervention when you started practicing writing her name in calligraphy.”
“That never happened,” I lie smoothly.
Marcus squints at me. “You’ve been gone a long time, man. She recognize you?”
I let the question hang there, then shake my head. “Nope. Not a clue.”
Eric winces. “Ouch.”
“Nah, I kind of like it.”
They all stare at me.
“I get it, though,” Marcus insists. “I mean, look at you now, man. Half of Maple Ridge is drooling all over you. She should be apologizing for not seeing the vision back then, the potential.”
I smirk. “You drooling over me is not the mental image I need.”
“You’re welcome,” he says smugly.
“Back then, I was a skinny kid with braces and a zit constellation on my forehead. She had a life. I had charcoal pencils and too much free time. I don’t blame her for not remembering me.”
Kyle shakes his head. “Still. Jenna Howard in your shop, asking for the biggest chocolate dick you’ve got.” He whistles. “You can’t make this shit up.”
“Apparently you can mold it, though,” Eric adds.
I lift my beer in a half toast. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”
We’re still laughing when the door opens and a burst of cool air sweeps through the bar. I glance toward the entrance out of habit and nearly forget how to breathe.
Jenna walks in with three other women, all of them talking and laughing as they make their way inside.
She’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking sweater that hugs her plush body, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders.
The low light catches the glint of a delicate necklace at her throat and the shimmer of gloss on her lips.
She looks… happy. Lighter than she did in my shop a few days ago. There’s still something fragile underneath, like glass that’s been carefully glued back together. But she’s smiling. And it hits me harder than I expect.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Marcus mutters with a sly grin.
Kyle lets out a low, appreciative hum. “Damn. She got even hotter over the years.”
Eric elbows me. “Close your mouth, man. You’re staring.”
I ignore them. Because, yes, I’m staring and I don’t care. She’s just as beautiful as she ever was, and it’s a shame she doesn’t know it.
One of Jenna’s friends—Paige, I think?—spots Marcus and waves before dragging the group over.
“Well, hey there,” she calls, bright and bubbly. “Didn’t realize it was boy’s night.”
“Not anymore,” Marcus says, grinning. He hooks an arm around Paige’s waist and pulls her in for a quick kiss, confirming what I already suspected: She’s the girl he’s been seeing for the last few weeks.
The other two women, Macy and Rachel, say hi to my friends, trading hugs and casual greetings. Jenna hangs back a bit, her fingers curled around the strap of her purse and her green eyes sweeping the bar.
Then her gaze lands on me.
For a second, everything else drops away. The music, the clink of glassware, the steady buzz of conversation… it all fades.
Her eyes widen slightly, recognition flickering there, but only in the sense of have I seen you around? Not I sat in front of you for four years while you sketched images of me in your notebook.
“You’re the chocolate guy,” she says, her brow furrowing adorably. “From Bliss.”
It’s a small miracle I don’t grin like an idiot. “I’m the chocolate guy,” I say, leaning casually on my cue stick. “Glad to see you’ve recovered from your… dick faux pas.”
Her cheeks flush. “Mrs. Schumacher might never heal, but I’ll live.”
I chuckle. “She’ll be alright. I sent her home with a free box of truffles.”
“Bribing the witness,” Jenna says. “Smart.”
Up close, I can smell it again, that signature green apple scent. It hits me square in the chest and drags a thousand memories with it. Hallways and lockers and her head tipped down over a worn paperback.
Paige glances between us, realization dawning in her eyes. “Wait a second.” She points at me. “You’re Oliver, right? Oliver Jacobson?”
There it is.
I give her a small nod. “Yeah. Been a while. I moved back two months ago.”
Macy snaps her fingers. “Oh my God. The art guy. You drew that mural for the fall festival in junior year.”