Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Vi was still yelling when he wrapped her in a big hug. She should’ve been disgusted, clothes smeared with the stuff. But when he rubbed their cheeks together, getting butter in her hair, Vi found herself giggling.
* * *
The counter ticked down.
Vi didn’t look at it once while they sat on the floor in front of the oven, watching the cobbler turn brown. They’d had to throw out that first attempt, but the second had gone swimmingly. Especially after they wiped their clothes off, getting most of the foodstuffs out.
“It really brings people together,” Vi said, stretching her legs out in front of her. She could only sit cross-legged for so long before she started to get pins and needles.
Nick snorted.
“What? It does!”
Nick pulled his knees up to his chest. He had cycled through a dozen styles of sitting since they got down here, including crouching, lying down flat on his back, lying with his legs up on the cupboard, and kneeling.
He couldn’t seem to stick to one for more than two minutes before shifting.
It didn’t help that the kitchen was too small for his bulk, his head scraping the ceiling anytime he looked up.
“You say that like I’m this . . . selfless . . . Santa guy, giving out sweets,” he said. “I’m just what the sign says—a stressed-out baker. It was either put them out for free or toss ’em.”
“Set up a one-day stall,” Vi suggested. She smacked his arm. “You could be a baker! Heath needs new people at Scales N’ Scones. They could really use you!”
“Why are you hitting me all of a sudden?” Nick said, rubbing his arm. Specks of flour were still stuck to his arm hairs. “Since when do you hit?”
“Since you,” Vi said.
The timer went off. Nick leaped up like he was on springs, almost forgetting to grab his oven mitts before he went for the oven door. He slid the peach cobbler onto the stovetop and bent down to reach into his dishwasher, bringing out two dessert spoons.
He turned to offer one to Vi, who was still sitting with her legs stretched out in front of the oven. He’d had to step over her to open it.
She eyed the spoon suspiciously. “Is it clean?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, Vi. I’m giving you a gross spoon that I licked earlier. Yes, it’s clean.”
She pushed herself to her feet and took it.
He gestured at the cobbler. “Ladies first.”
It was golden brown on top, sticky juice bubbling at the edges of the white pan. Vi leaned over it. Sweet steam washed over her face. It smelled exactly the same as it had two years ago, when she’d shared a cobbler with Gabriella. Vi hadn’t thought she would remember.
She nudged a small portion of cobbler onto her spoon.
Nick winced. “Shit, careful. That’s going to be jet-fuel hot.”
“That’s why I’m going small,” she told him. She blew on it, waiting for the steam to ease slightly. Then she popped it into her mouth.
It all came rushing back: the sun on her face, Gabriella smiling with tears in her eyes, the two of them sharing peach cobbler on Gabriella’s porch. It hadn’t fixed anything, but it had been the start—a small, sweet start of Gabriella climbing out of that dark hole she’d been tossed down.
Vi laughed. “Oh my god. It really is you! We loved this cobbler. It was the first time I’d seen Gabs smile since her husband died.”
“Oh,” Nick said, voice small. “Um . . .”
Vi laughed again, her eyes wet. “I can’t believe it’s really you! You were down the street the whole time! You were right there!”
The laughter came louder now, her whole body shaking with it. She wiped at her eyes again, at her hot cheeks. There was a crumb at the corner of her mouth. She brushed it off and turned to find Nick watching her mouth, his eyes unbearably soft.
“There it is,” he said.
Vi’s giggles tapered off. “What?”
He shrugged. “Your laugh.”
Vi had to think for a second before it clicked. I’m trying to make you laugh, okay, he’d told her once over a box of brownies he’d secretly made for her.
“You’ve made me laugh before,” she said, giving her face another cursory wipe, just in case. Her hands came away dry. “You’ve made me laugh way too much.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Loud. Free. You’re always so . . . penned in. Distant.”
“Oh, I’m distant?”
He held up his pointer finger and thumb to indicate the barest inch of space. “Little bit.”
“Says you, with all your . . . your . . .” Vi stammered, trying to think. It was hard with him standing so close. “I’m so cool. I’m Nick Wicker. Nothing can touch me.”
Nick rubbed his arm, right over the panther. “Yeah, well. Can’t go around with your heart on your sleeve, right? Dangerous shit happens.”
“Like making a girl laugh?” Vi stepped toward him, heart in her throat, peach on her tongue, watching his dark eyes get even darker as she swayed closer.
“Yeah, like . . .” Nick wet his lips. “Like. . .”
He trailed off into nothing as she reached up and touched his jaw. Lightly, carefully, right over the spot he’d shown her at the café earlier. Into that small patch of stubble he hadn’t quite caught.
Nick swallowed. She watched his throat bob, his gaze flicker down to her mouth. There was something more than lust in there. She was sure of it.
“Do I—” He laughed, the weakest sound she’d ever heard from him. “Do I still have flour on my face?”
She shook her head. “No. I just wanted to touch you.”
He made a noise, lost and low. His head jerked down toward her, so small she almost missed it. Then he stopped, those dark eyes finding hers. A silent question.
Vi grinned and kissed him.