Chapter 12
PIPER
She leaned forward, slightly, at the playful glint in Zach's eyes.
"You know, I think we know each other well enough to share a few professional secrets," she said.
"Only the professional ones?" A slow smile spread across his face.
"You know what?" Noah tapped out a rhythm on the table. "It's been great to meet you, Piper," he added, glancing between the two of them. "I'm going to go lose some money at pool." He slid out of the booth, shaking his head with a wry smile.
"What were we talking about again?" Zach asked, his gaze never leaving hers.
"We were talking about secrets," she said, and, damn it came out breathy.
The invisible tether between them pulled tight, even as she lifted her drink and sipped.
Brek's was nothing like the coffee shops she usually preferred when she socialized. This place was lived in, loud, and comfortable.
For the first time since she took the Anna and Drake gig, her shoulders loosened their knot of tension, exchanging it for a warm buzz that had nothing to do with whiskey and everything to do with Zach. He became a small pocket of ease in her life that made her want to crawl inside and stay.
The music around them swelled as the band launched into their first song, a bluesy rock number with a deep groove.
"Can I ask you something?" Piper asked.
"Shoot," he said, the relaxed air around him contagious.
"Why did you bring me here tonight?" she asked, fainter than she meant to be. Vulnerable, almost.
He considered her for a moment, letting the colored lights from the stage play across his face as he seemed to search for the right words.
"Because I like you," he said simply. "And I think there's something here worth exploring outside of business deals and my sister's wedding plans."
Piper was fresh out of witty comebacks, and the taut stretch of the air around them kept her still. So she sat there, letting his words seep in. Her pulse harmonized with the lazy drumbeat coming from the stage.
"Besides," he added with a rueful smile, "you're the only woman I know who can make underwear sound like a serious career choice and wedding planning sound like a prison sentence."
She laughed, genuinely. "You're nuts."
"I prefer 'persistent,'" he corrected, opening the breadbasket and producing a serrated knife.
"I like that your persistence comes with a side of carbs."
"If we're going to be smugglers," he said, mock-grave, "we should do it properly and actually eat the contraband." He unveiled a ramekin of butter and a tiny jar of honey. "You don't need to worry, either. Brek's is known for providing diplomatic immunity for cases like this."
"Who are you, Zach Dvornakov?" she asked, seriously and, also, not.
"The hero you didn't know you needed." He folded a napkin and lifted out a fresh loaf. Malt and caraway unspooled something low in her chest.
She aimed for delicate. But the first bite drew an embarrassingly honest hum out of her. Warmth pushed up her neck.
His gaze heated, focused on her lips.
"That never happened," she said primly, pointing to the bread and then to herself.
"That absolutely happened," he said, eyes amused and intent. "Make that noise again, and I'm kissing you."
"Then stop feeding me," she muttered, already reaching for more honey. "This is carbohydrate entrapment."
"Not a chance."
"Why is this so good?" she asked.
"Because Babushka substitutes the liquid in some of her recipes with vodka. It works." He shrugged.
They fell into the rhythm of slice, butter, honey, sip, smile, laugh. The band rolled into a looser beat that made their booth a private space in the crowd of people.
"Tell me something true," he said, palm up on the table but not touching hers.
The space between their hands felt like a dare.
Piper smoothed a crumb off the table with her thumb.
"I color-code my sock drawer," she said at last. "That's why I didn't think it was funny when you teased me about doing yours."
"Does that mean you'll volunteer to adopt mine?" he asked. "They need structure. They're feral."
"They'll get a chart and a curfew. I expect a benefits package."
"Dental, vision, and naming rights to my sock bins." He shifted toward her, his arms on the table. "Just so we're clear, organizational theory as a form of foreplay is a kink I didn't know I am into until this moment."
"Your turn," she said, grinning.
"Remember how I said Babushka taught me to sew?"
Piper nodded.
"I still like to get out my old Singer when I'm stressed. It makes my head quiet."
Something tugged hard in her chest. "You at your sewing machine is way more attractive than me with socks."
"More attractive than contraband carbs?" he asked.
"Jury's out." She angled the basket his way.
He stretched an arm along the back of the booth. "Wildly unpopular opinion?"
"Easy. Confetti is the glitter of cowards," she said confidently because she had given this a decent amount of thought.
That seemed to catch him off guard. "Explain."
"If you're going to make a mess, commit. Either go biodegradable petals or own the cleanup. Confetti is a half-measure with static cling."
"I'm learning so much." He grinned. "My turn: open floor plans ruined living rooms."
"On behalf of people who prefer doors," she said, pressing her hand to her heart, "thank you."
His expression went quiet in a way that made her chest feel too full. The conversation idled with the music, and gradually the energy shifted. Easier. Just two people talking.
"My mom insisted I had a 'natural gift' for event planning," she said.
"You mentioned your parents had multiple weddings," he said carefully. "To each other?"
Piper nodded, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "At first. Each time they convinced themselves that 'this time it would be different.' And each time, it wasn't."
"That's a lot for a kid to deal with," Zach observed.
"Try being appointed the wedding planner for their third attempt," Piper said with a dry laugh. "I was sixteen. My mother fired the professional because 'he couldn't understand their unique love story.'"
"Sixteen? That's..."
"Inappropriate? Traumatic? Character-forming?" Piper supplied. "All of the above. But I was good at it. I had a gift for creating order from messes." She lifted a shoulder.
"That's how you got into event planning professionally?"
She nodded. "Turns out the skills transfer nicely to corporate events. Better, actually, since companies don't usually divorce after the product launch."
Zach made a keep going gesture.
She swallowed, hard. "It's a pattern. My parents, my own train-wreck of a love life, even clients. I'm the common denominator. I'm the kryptonite."
Zach leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
Something flashed in her eyes. Uncertainty, perhaps?
"I believe in patterns. And my pattern suggests I should stay far away from anything involving white dresses and vows no one can keep."
He gave a low whistle. "I thought my family was complicated."
Piper laughed. "I'm sorry, but nothing compares to my mom announcing her newest engagement to her divorce lawyer at my college graduation party just to piss off my dad."
He lifted his glass in surrender. "Okay, you win."
Their laughter joined the music as the band transitioned into a slower song. Couples drifted toward the dance floor, and Zach watched them before turning his gaze back to her.
"At least your family is present for you," she said. "And supportive."
He flinched at that. "They've come around. The flower business has been in the family for generations. My decision to go a different direction wasn't exactly celebrated."
"But they support you now?"
"They're still a little wait-and-see. I really think things like the Stallions deal would change that."
The band shifted to a soulful standard, the singer's voice smoothing over the clinking of glasses and buzz of conversation. Zach looked toward the dance floor and seemed to make a decision.
"What do you say?" he asked, rising and offering his hand.
Absolutely not. She didn't dance.
"I'm not good at that," she said.
"You don't have to be good at it. That's the best part."
He watched her, waiting for the wall to go up again. Instead, she paused.
"I'm really not a dancer," she warned.
"Neither am I," he admitted with a grin. "But I'm willing to risk public humiliation if you are."
"One dance," she relented, placing her hand in his.
He closed his fingers gently, but deliberately, around hers and led her toward the edge of the dance floor.
The band's cover of an old soul classic filled the room, sultry and smooth.
He guided her into a loose hold, his hand settling at her waist—warm, steady, lingering a moment longer than shy.
There was a subtle tension in her spine, and in the way she tracked each movement carefully, strategizing not just the dance, but what it meant to let him that close.
"See? Not so terrible," he murmured, voice low near her ear.
"I like knowing what comes next," she confessed, the breath behind her words brushing across his skin.
"That's the thing about dancing," he said. "Sometimes it's better when you don't know. When you just feel it."
He led her into a simple turn and her body tensed. Then she pressed back against him as she steadied herself. There wasn't much space between them now.
"Let me control it for a minute." He brushed his thumb over the curve of her waist. "Only for a minute. You can have all the control everywhere else."
She hesitated. Her breath caught and she forced away the flicker of resistance. And then, slowly, she gave in. Her body leaned into his more naturally, her movements trading sharpness for something fluid. Something responsive.
"There you go," he whispered, his lips shy of touching her temple. "See? The world doesn't end when you let go a little."
"The jury's still out on that," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.
The music slipped into a slower, more intimate tempo. She slid her hand a fraction higher along his shoulder; her gaze lingered longer than casual. She pressed into him instinctively, her body fitting against his like a question waiting for an answer.
"You're getting the hang of this," he murmured, his breath grazing sensitive skin at her ear.
"Don't sound so surprised," she replied, voice lower. "I can follow directions when they make sense."
"Is that what we're doing here? Following directions?"
Her eyes met his—direct, uncertain, charged. "Isn't it?"
He smiled under the warm bar lights, his grip subtly tightening at her waist. "I think we might be improvising."
"I'm not good at improvising," she said with a hesitant smile, her mouth close enough to feel the shape of his on every word.
"Yet here you are." He turned her again, slow and deliberate, keeping her closer on the return. "Dancing with the man who makes underwear for a living."
She laughed, light and musical. "When you put it that way, this sounds like I've strayed pretty far from my comfort zone."
"The best things usually happen outside comfort zones," he replied, watching her take those words in. "I saw it on a T-shirt once, that's how I know it's true."
"This feels..." she began quietly.
"Dangerous?" he offered.
"Unexpected," she said, holding his gaze. "And the unexpected is always the most dangerous thing of all."