Chapter 58 Brynn
Chapter fifty-eight
Brynn
“Ithought he was going to do it during dessert.”
I say it so suddenly, Kate pauses mid-sip of her coffee, and Kinsey blinks like I just confessed I’m moving to Paris.
Evie, who’s sitting on her knees in the booth next to me and carefully pulling all the blueberries out of her pancake with her fingers, looks up. “Do what?”
I rest my forehead against the table. “I thought Knox was going to propose yesterday. At Thanksgiving. And he didn’t. So now I’m having a mild internal crisis and also I think I hate syrup now.”
Kinsey gasps. “Wait—you thought he was going to propose? Like, yesterday? During dinner?”
“I knew something was up,” Kate says, setting down her mug. “You were watching him like he was a wishbone you wanted to split.”
“Because he was being all soft and glowy and affectionate,” I groan, sitting up.
“He carved my turkey for me and passed me the good rolls without being asked. He kept brushing my knee under the table and he smiled at me every time I said something, even when it wasn’t funny. That’s engagement energy.”
Kinsey leans in. “Okay, but to be fair, he also smiled when Evie told everyone she named the mashed potatoes Mr. Softy.”
Evie, without looking up, says cheerfully, “Because they were soft and mashed.”
“Poetry,” Kate says seriously, and Evie beams.
“I just…” I stab a piece of pancake and sigh.
“I overheard him on the phone the day before. He was talking about how he already talked to my parents, and how he wanted it to be quiet, meaningful, ours. So naturally I thought he meant Thanksgiving. You know, the holiday we spent surrounded by all the people we love and a suspicious amount of carbs.”
Kate raises a brow. “And let me guess—you were just waiting for him to stand up and make a toast that ended with a diamond?”
“Yes!” I cry. “I even wore waterproof mascara. That’s how sure I was.”
Kinsey’s grinning now. “Okay, but between your dad knocking over the gravy boat and Evie pretending to be a pumpkin for forty-five minutes, was that the romantic moment you were hoping for?”
“I wasn’t pretending,” Evie mumbles, mouth full of blueberries. “I was a pumpkin.”
“You were a very good pumpkin,” I say automatically, brushing a crumb off her cheek.
Kate leans forward. “He loves you. We all saw it. I mean, he looked at you like you were made of pie and starlight.”
“And he said,” Kinsey adds, pointing her fork at me, “—and I quote—‘Feels like you belong right here.’ Which, I’m sorry, is basically a proposal preview.”
“I know,” I groan again. “So when nothing happened—no ring, no question, not even a dramatic clink of a fork against a glass—I started spiraling. What if I misread everything? What if I’ve built this whole expectation up in my head and now I’m just going to spend the rest of the holiday season flinching every time he reaches for his back pocket? ”
Kate squeezes my arm. “He’s going to ask. He’s probably just trying to make it perfect.”
Kinsey nods. “And it’s Knox. He probably wants to build the ring out of reclaimed barn wood and emotionally significant pebbles from your first date spot.”
Evie tilts her head. “Is the ring going to be pretty?”
“Probably,” I say. “Sparkly, at least.”
Evie stabs her pancake. “I’m gonna get a sparkly ring too. From Santa.”
“Well,” Kinsey murmurs. “Santa and Knox are working on similar timelines, so that checks out.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I’m not crazy, right?”
“You’re in love,” Kate says gently. “And he is too. And the moment is coming. It just…wasn’t yesterday.”
Evie climbs into my lap, wraps her little arms around my neck, and says, “He loves you sooooo much. I saw him looking at you like this.”
She makes a face—wide eyes, dopey grin, tongue half-out—and I start laughing so hard I nearly cry.
And just like that, the spiral eases. A little.
Because I want the proposal, sure. I want the sparkly ring and the future, and the kitchen filled with matching mugs. But more than anything, I want this life. These people. These moments.
Kate raises her mug. “To Brynn. For not proposing to herself yesterday.”
Kinsey lifts her juice glass. “To Knox. For surviving family dinner without blowing the big moment.”
Evie holds up her empty cup. “To sparkles!”
And me?
I raise my coffee. “To being wildly in love with a man who better have a plan.”
We’re curled up on the couch, Knox’s arm draped across my shoulders, his thumb drawing circles lazily over my skin while a ridiculous '90s action movie plays. He’s not even pretending to take it seriously, but I know he secretly loves the explosions and dramatic one-liners.
I’m only half-watching, half-scrolling through dessert videos, when I sigh and say, “You know what would make this night perfect?”
He doesn’t even glance away from the screen. “World peace?”
“Cookies.”
That gets his attention.
He turns, one brow arched, lips twitching. “From-scratch cookies or whatever’s left in the emergency Oreo stash?”
“From scratch,” I say, already standing and stretching. His too-big sleep shirt slides up my thighs and catches his gaze like a hook. “We deserve the real deal.”
He smirks and rises in one long stretch, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. “Say less, baby girl. Let’s bake.”
— — —
The kitchen glows with warm overhead lights and soft spillover from the living room. There’s a cozy jazz playlist humming in the background. Knox insisted it set the “chef’s mood,” though he’s already dancing behind me like a dork, bumping my hip while I scroll through cookie recipes.
“This was your idea, just to be clear.”
Knox stops dancing and leans against the counter beside me, looking like he belongs on a cooking competition show called Hot & Inconveniently Distracting. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his eyes track every move I make like he’s trying to memorize me in real time.
“You say that like I regret it,” I mutter, scrolling through my phone as I lean over the counter. “I don’t.”
I can feel his gaze heating up my spine.
“You’re in my shirt,” he says slowly, voice low and playful, “scrolling dessert porn with bare legs and no shame.”
I glance at him and raise an eyebrow. “And yet you’re the one who keeps stealing ingredients.”
He tosses another handful of chocolate chips into his mouth. “Baker’s tax.”
I snort, shaking my head as I pull the browned butter off the stove and let it cool. “We’re never getting through this recipe if you keep eating it.”
He saunters over and wraps an arm around my waist, chin landing on my shoulder. “We’re making memories. And cookies. That’s balance.”
His voice is a lazy rumble against my skin, and the way he’s standing behind me—pressed against my back like he could devour me through proximity alone—is anything but balanced.
“You’re not even pretending this isn’t foreplay,” I whisper, trying to focus on measuring flour while he ghosts kisses along the side of my neck.
He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “You started it.”
We mix together the dough—laughing, stealing licks off each other’s fingers.
It’s soft and messy and exactly the kind of night I never thought I’d get to have again with him.
He slides his hands over mine when I stir, leans in a little too close every time I reach across him, whispers praise in my ear just to watch me squirm.
By the time we get the tray into the oven, I’m warm all over. And not just from the oven.
He tosses the mitts onto the counter and steps behind me again, wrapping both arms around my waist and pressing his mouth to the side of my neck.
“Timer’s set,” he murmurs.
I hum. “Still want to drizzle chocolate over the top when they’re done?”
He pulls back just enough to give me that lazy, devilish grin. “Drizzle? Baby girl, you say words like that and then act surprised when I want to taste it off your skin.”
I don’t even fight the blush.
I melt the chocolate slowly in a saucepan while Knox leans against the counter beside me, watching like I’m the main course. The rich, sweet scent swirls between us, and when I test the temperature with a finger and lick it off—slowly—his body visibly tightens.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You do that again and we’re never making it to the cookies.”
I dip another finger. Suck it clean.
“Oh,” I say. “Is that a promise?”
He’s on me in a second. His hand slides up my side, slow and sure, bunching the oversized shirt up with it. He kisses a line from my neck to my shoulder, then to the base of my throat, and whispers, “Take this off for me, baby girl.”
Before I can respond, he’s already doing it himself—tugging his shirt off my body. When I’m bare from the waist up, standing there in nothing but my underwear and a cloud of tension so thick I could chew it, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
“Is it crazy that I love you naked in my kitchen?” he mutters, eyes raking over me.
He dips two fingers into the now-cooled chocolate, then meets my gaze—dark, hungry, reverent.
“Hold still.”
His fingers trail a line of chocolate over the top of my breasts, slow and thick and warm. My breath stutters as I look down and watch him paint me like dessert. Then he bends. And licks.
His tongue drags across my skin in a slow, filthy stripe, collecting every drop of chocolate before he sucks one nipple into his mouth, licking deep, teasing, pulling another gasp from my throat.
“Knox—”
“You taste so good, baby girl,” he murmurs, kissing the other breast, warm and wet and worshipping. “Like sugar and mine.”
My hands thread into his hair, my back arching toward his mouth, begging for more.
“You love this,” he says against my skin.
“God, yes,” I breathe. “More.”
He kisses his way down my ribs, my stomach, chocolate smeared across his lips like he was born to ruin me. His hands slide around to my ass, kneading, squeezing, tugging me closer until I’m breathless and unsteady.
“Turn around,” he rasps. “Hands on the counter.”
I obey, spine tingling as I brace my palms on the cool granite and feel him come up behind me, warm and solid and ready.
“Still want dessert?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
He leans in and bites my shoulder, gentle but possessive. “You are dessert. Let’s see if I can make this pussy come before the timer goes off.”
I feel him line up behind me, one hand wrapped around my hip, the other slipping between my legs to tease me open. I’m already pulsing, ready to fall apart for him.
“Say it,” he growls, dragging the head of his cock through my slick heat.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Please, Knox.”
“You got me, baby girl.”
He fists my hair and pulls—just enough to lift my head, just enough to wreck me—and then he’s pushing inside, one deep, devastating thrust that punches the breath from my lungs.
“Fuck,” I cry out, nails digging into the counter.
“You’re so damn tight,” he pants, pulling back and snapping forward again. “So fucking sweet. Taking me like you were made for this.”
He sets a rhythm—hard, relentless, his hand still in my hair, his other on my breast, smearing chocolate as he uses my body like it’s his favorite addiction.
“Say my name,” he growls, fucking me harder.
“Knox—God—Knox!”
“That’s it,” he snarls. “My good girl. My mess. My baby girl.”
His fingers slide back down, rubbing tight circles over my clit just the way I need it, and everything in me tightens like a pulled string.
“I want you to come with me,” he commands, voice wrecked. “Fall apart for me, baby.”
I shatter. Hard and fast, my legs trembling, my breath coming in sobs as I convulse around him. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself deep and holding me close, like if he lets go, the world will stop spinning.
We collapse together over the counter, sticky and panting, laughing as the timer for the cookies finally goes off.
He presses a lazy kiss to my shoulder and mutters, “Just in time. Sort of proud of that.”
A laugh pushes past my lips. “I think we just invented the cookie quickie.”
We never bothered putting clothes back on.
The cookies are a little darker on the edges than they were supposed to be—thanks to the whole mind-blowing kitchen sex detour—but still warm enough to make me sigh when I bite into one.
I’m curled against Knox on the couch, my legs tangled with his, a throw blanket haphazardly covering the important bits, though neither of us seems especially committed to modesty at this point. He’s got one arm slung behind my head and the other holding a cookie like it’s a trophy.
“You know,” he says, chewing like a man personally offended by how good it is, “we’re never baking fully clothed again.”
“Agreed,” I murmur, licking melted chocolate from my finger. “Kitchen sex is clearly the secret ingredient.”
He groans like I’ve wounded him. “Baby girl, don’t say stuff like that unless you’re ready for round two.”
I give him a lazy, satisfied smirk. “You couldn’t even stand up five minutes ago.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you…taunting me?”
“Maybe.” He grabs another cookie from the plate on my lap and takes an exaggerated bite.
I watch the way his jaw flexes, the smug set of his smile, the chocolate on his lips. “You have a little something,” I say, tapping my own mouth.
He leans closer, eyes gleaming. “Wanna lick it off?”
“I should say no.”
“But you won’t.”
I don’t. Obviously.
My tongue swipes the chocolate from his bottom lip, and he groans again, a little choked. His hand finds my thigh under the blanket and squeezes. We settle again, warm and sated, cookies between us, bodies tangled.
We fall asleep like that. Half-covered in a throw blanket, half-covered in cookie crumbs, entirely covered in each other.