Chapter 4
Thatcher
“You know what might’ve been nice?” Blaire asks, teeth chattering as we make a run for one of the ATVs waiting outside the brewery.
Staying home and avoiding this stupid holiday? But of course I don’t say that out loud, because this is now apparently my idea.
I make a mental note to kill my sister the next time I talk to her. When she suggested taking Blaire to the Cupid’s Crawl, she failed to mention that she’d signed us up as contestants. Or that we’d be handcuffed together until we completed all the many holiday-themed activities required.
“What’s that?” I ask, holding the door open so Blaire can crawl into the backseat of the covered ATV.
“Asking us if we wanted to put on our coats before the handcuffs went on.”
“I think she knew you were a flight risk,” I say, sliding in next to her, pretending I’m not affected by that intoxicating body spray Blaire applied after her shower.
I’m tempted to bury my nose in her wavy blonde hair to find out, but I resist the urge I’d have a hard time explaining.
Instead, I discover a folded blanket and spread it over our laps.
“Right, because you blindsided me.”
“Would you have left the house if I told you what we were really doing?”
She bites down on her bottom lip, looking away. “No, probably not.”
“This won’t be so bad,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it.
There’s not a single thing on this damn postcard that sounds the least bit fun to me.
It sounds like crowds, over-commercialized romance, and a ton of attention I don’t want.
I’m certain when I head back to work Monday, the guys will give me an endless amount of shit for participating in something I claimed so much disdain for right before I clocked out Friday.
A couple of quick blocks later, the ATV stops outside a little shop called Baked by Andie.
I let out a quiet sigh, wishing I was anywhere else.
Next year, I might actually leave town over Valentine’s Day.
I’d like to see Raelyn rope me into something against my will then.
The only bright side to this whole thing is that if I have to be handcuffed to another woman, at least it’s someone as familiar as Blaire Sutton—my very first crush.
But not my first kiss. I shove the bitter memory away as Blaire impatiently pushes at my shoulder.
“What are you waiting for? Did you forget we have a competition to win?”
The second her boot-clad feet hit pavement, she tugs me inside, straight toward one of the several little tables marked Cupid’s Crawl.
“Welcome!” Andie Jensen, the owner greets.
“Where are the strawberries?” I ask, glancing at the empty tables. Apparently, we’re the first couple to choose this event because I don’t see a strawberry in sight.
“Right here,” Harley Greer says, carrying a tray with four fresh strawberries to our table.
“I thought we were supposed to feed chocolate dipped strawberries to each other,” Blaire asks Andie.
“That’s right.”
“Where’s the chocolate?”
Another employee appears with a bowl of melted chocolate in her oven-mitt covered hands. “It’s fresh off the stove, so be careful.”
“We have to dip them?” I ask.
“Yes,” Andie says. “You have to successfully dip at least two strawberries, using only your cuffed hands. While the chocolate sets, you ask each other questions.”
“Questions?” Blaire repeats.
“Like a date,” Andie says, smiling warmly. “There’re some suggestions on the back of your card to get you started.”
“And if we don’t?” I ask, not really in an asking and answering questions type mood.
“Then I won’t stamp your card.” Andie nods toward the strawberries as another couple rushes inside. “Better get started if you want to win. The chocolate can take up to fifteen minutes to fully set.”
Blaire yanks my hand forward as she reaches for a strawberry, and the little plate topples. Strawberries roll, one falling to the floor. I catch a second before it meets the same fate, quickly putting it back on the table before I can be caught using my free hand.
“Hey,” I say to Blaire, wrapping my hand around hers to pull it away from the ingredients before we knock over the bowl of melted chocolate too. “We won’t win if you try to do this all yourself.”
“But they’ve already dipped two strawberries, and they just got here,” Blaire protests.
With my free hand, I grip her chin and force to her to look at me. It’s a mistake, because those emerald eyes have always had a way of making me a little stupid. “If you want to win, we have to work together as a team.”
“We’re not exactly great at that,” she mutters.
“Tell me about it.”
We slow down, and after a few failed attempts that leaves one piece of fruit crushed, manage to successfully dip the two remaining strawberries and place them on the small parchment paper lined tray to harden.
“Why do you hate me?” Blaire asks.
“I don’t think that question’s on the list.”
She narrows her gaze at me, and fuck me if it doesn’t make me want to push her up against the wall and show her exactly how much I don’t hate her. It would be so much easier if I did hate her. So much fucking easier.
“Fine. What is your favorite…” She flips the card over. “Ice cream flavor.”
“Strawberry.”
“You’re lying,” she says, swatting me with the back of her free hand.
“Fine. I haven’t been able to eat ice cream since I was nine, when I snuck a full carton of rocky road out of the freezer in the middle of the night. That was after Mom wouldn’t let me have any because I refused to eat my broccoli at dinner. I ate it until I threw up—twice.”
When Blaire starts to laugh, I’m not prepared for the absolutely stunning affect her smile has on me.
It’s the first time in years I’ve seen her smile like that, and dammit if I don’t want to find ways to keep her smiling.
The thought makes being handcuffed to her for the afternoon sound less terrible.
“Your turn,” she says, swiping at a tear.
“To what?”
“Ask me a question.”
I take the card, flipping it over and scanning the list of typical first date questions. “If you could live anywhere, other than where you currently live, where would it be?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” She presses a finger into the chocolate of one of the strawberries, as though testing it. Melted chocolate smears her fingertip, and she brings it to her lips.
I should avert my gaze, but fuck, I don’t want to.
“I’d live here.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Caribou Creek is like a second home to me. Why would that surprise you?”
“Is that why you came here after—” I catch myself before the question fully slips past my lips, but the way Blaire’s expression falls tells me she knows exactly what I was about to say. After you called off your wedding.
“I don’t regret my decision, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“It’s not.”
It absolutely is.
For some stupid reason, my pulse trips as a seed of hope worms its way into my heart.
I don’t know what the fuck it means. I gave up on the idea of the two of us ever ending up together after she broke my heart the first time, twenty years ago.
I accepted that she’d always be my sister’s best friend, and nothing more.
With the way I pulled back and pushed her out all those years ago, I can’t even call her a friend.
We’ve tolerated each other because of our families.
You were twelve, dipshit. Things are different now.
“What’s your favorite way to spend a weekend?” Blaire asks.
“Away from people.”
She chuckles again, but it’s more guarded than before. I hate that I caused that wall to go back up. “You must really want to prove a point to this ex of yours if you’re braving people this weekend, then.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying, and she gives me a funny look.
“What’s her name?”
“You already asked a question,” I say, testing the chocolate on the strawberries to avoid answering that question. Lies only work if you avoid layering too many details. After tonight, it won’t matter anyway. “These are ready,” I say of the strawberries. “I’ll feed you first.”
It’s awkward to start as I guide the sweet treat to her mouth. But all that fades the moment she closes her lips around the chocolate shell. Fuck me, am I jealous of a stupid piece of fruit?
She bites into the strawberry, and juice instantly runs down her chin. She jumps back, the strawberry nearly tumbling to the floor. Her eyes go wide in realization, and she catches the falling fruit in her palm.
I reach for a damp napkin, patting at the juice trail on her neck first.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Blaire asks.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a vampire who wants to take a nice big bite out of my neck.”
“Because,” I flick my gaze up to hers, “maybe I do.”