Chapter 11
Eb
I can’t believe it when Marigold flips the sign on the door to Closed.
The day flew by.
And not in the miserable, grind-it-out, can’t-wait-to-go-home way I’m used to.
No, this was fun.
Actual, honest-to-Gods fun.
I don’t remember the last time I smiled this much—or the last time someone looked at me the way she did when I handed a customer a bag of cookies instead of a quarterly report.
My shirt is dusted with flour.
My hands smell like sugar and butter and frosting.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t hate that I’m a mess.
Marigold looks exhausted, but beautiful in that soft, glowing way that only happens when someone’s been doing something they love all day.
Her curls have fallen out of their bun, her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are shining.
“So, what’s left?” I ask, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.
She’s bent over a tray, adding the finishing touches to a batch of star-shaped cookies glazed in gold.
“Well,” she says, not looking up, “I need to finish decorating these, then in the morning I’ll box them up for the gala.”
I move closer, drawn like gravity. “How about I help you tonight?”
She glances up, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure me out.
“Eb, you’ve been here all day. Aren’t you tired?”
“Not really.” I shrug, grabbing a piping bag. “Besides, I don’t want this to end.”
Her gaze softens, and something deep inside my chest shifts.
It feels dangerous. Like hope.
So I stay.
We work side by side for a few more hours, eating takeout I have delivered at a little bit extra cost from my favorite spot Pizza Girls sometime during the night.
We eat. We laugh. We talk. And we work.
But it’s more than that.
It’s light and teasing, full of innuendo, and so goddamn perfect.
Her cookies really are incredible.
They taste like Christmas and joy and everything good about the world.
“You’re really talented,” I say, licking a bit of frosting off my thumb.
She smirks.
“Thanks. You’re not half bad yourself, Badger Boy.”
“Badger Boy?”
She grins wider.
“What? Too cute for you?”
“Way too cute,” I growl, stepping closer.
By the time we’re finished, the counters are covered in flour, the floor looks like a blizzard hit, and she’s got a smear of gold icing across her cheek that I have to touch.
Her breath hitches when my thumb brushes her skin.
That spark—the one I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment we met—ignites again, burning straight through me.
“Eb,” she whispers, but it’s not a warning.
I take a step closer. Then another.
“What are you doing, Eb?” she asks softly, her voice trembling.
“I don’t know, Honey,” I admit, my voice low and rough. “But it feels right. Doesn’t it feel right?” I ask and she nods.
Then I kiss her.
Hard. Hungry. Desperate.
Marigold gasps, her fingers clutching the front of my shirt as I tug her apron strings loose and pull her against me.
The smell of sugar and spice and her fills my head.
Flour dusts the air around us as we stumble toward the hallway leading to the stairs that go up to her apartment.
Her mouth is warm and sweet beneath mine, her body soft where I’m hard, and by the time we hit the wall, we’re both down to our underthings, grinding against each other like we’re trying to burn through every layer between us.
Her laugh turns into a moan as my hands slide down to cup her hips.
I can feel her heartbeat, wild and fast, matching my own.
“Shower. Now,” she pants against my lips.
“Yes,” I growl, scooping her up like she weighs nothing.
Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my waist, and I carry her upstairs without breaking the kiss.
Because this time, I’m not running from what’s between us.
This time, I’m diving straight in.