Virgin Daiquiri (Love After Midnight Book 2) Read online

  “Gems of the female psyche you mean,” Brooke teased. “But seriously, that guy needs a beer before he loses his shit.” She pointed to a man who was angrily occupying a stool on my end of the bar. “Clean up your stations, take care of your customers, and let Iris and me chat.”

  I glanced at Iris, and her eyes came to mine, still wide but filled with excitement.

  So, I nodded, took off for my end, stowed the box carefully because I sure as shit wasn’t sharing my food spoils with Jace-slash-Kace burly, broody, bartender beauty extraordinaire. Then I washed my hands and started running through orders.

  I’d been working—taking requests, pulling beers, mixing drinks, pocketing tips—for almost fifteen minutes before I managed to take a breath.

  Kace glanced up from the tray he was filling for one of the waitresses, a plethora of cocktails for one group of their regulars—including Heather O’Keith, who owned a small portion of Bobby’s still, but had sold the rest of her portion of the business to Kace. He signaled to the waitress that the drinks were ready to go and then crossed over to me.

  “Um, it’s been three days since I’ve seen you, bro,” he said. “Want to clue me in to what happened?”

  My eyes flicked toward Iris, not that they’d been doing much else aside from the bare minimum required for me to focus on pouring the drinks but not overfilling them. She was still chatting away with Brooke, her color high, her expression excited. Brooke, for her part, used to be exceptionally shy but had come out of her shell in the last year. Plus, I’d had the feeling that she and Iris would hit it off.

  Just so long as she didn’t hit it off with Kace.

  Asshole.

  I grunted, turned away to pull a few more beers and set them on the server’s tray.

  Kace was standing there, looking perfectly at ease, except for one raised brow.

  “She came into the bar on Christmas Eve. I noticed her, she left. Came back because she left her purse.”

  “And now you’re saving seats and plunking her ass next to Brooke’s?”

  “She’s too good for me.”

  “Know that feeling well, bro,” he said. “So, you gonna stay away from this too-good girl?”

  I shrugged. “I probably should.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  It wasn’t. Because I knew that I wasn’t a great guy, even though I had a checkered past, the least of which was not being there for the sister of my best friend when that best friend had lost his life; the most of which was the fact that I hadn’t been able to save that best friend in the first place. But I knew that even despite those things, I still wanted Iris.

  Hayden had a person to go back to.

  I’d had no one.

  He’d died. I’d lived.

  It should have been the other way around. But I still wanted Iris.

  “You deserve to be happy.”

  I shrugged. Maybe logically, I knew that. Maybe logically, I wanted that. But also mixed in with that logic was the fact that I knew if Hayden hadn’t thrown himself in front of that fucking IED then I would have died, and he would have lived.

  Maybe he would have had the bum back I’d spent a long fucking time in physical therapy working through, but he would have still been alive.

  And even having all of that running through my brain, knowing that the better man didn’t live, I also knew that I wasn’t going to be able to walk away from Iris. She was . . . special. Which, I got, sounded cliché and sappy and so damned stupid for just knowing her for three days.

  But I’d seen the Christmas explosion.

  I’d seen the passion for her career.

  I’d felt the way she’d curled into me, smelled the scent of her shampoo when she fell asleep on my chest, had my heart squeeze and expand and constrict with hope and fear when she trusted me enough to fall asleep.

  Because she felt it, too.

  One conversation, one kiss, and there seemed to be an invisible connection between the two of us.

  I glanced up and watched her again, smiling at her gestures, wanting to know what she was saying to Brooke, even though it was probably more of her mooning over the fictional Kace-based hero, and so I probably didn’t want to know after all.

  As though she felt me staring, her eyes came up and she smiled.

  At me.

  Broken me. Unworthy me.

  And I knew that even though I wasn’t nearly what she deserved, I also didn’t possess the strength to let her go.

  I worked the next night. Iris came in to say a quick, “Hi,” and brought dinner, which we ate together at her stool, her sitting atop it, me crowding into her, taking the chance to be close, to smell her, to soak up her smiles.

  But all too soon we finished eating and she had to head home, since she had an early morning at her kitchen the next day.

  I nodded at Kace, told him I’d be back in fifteen, and because everything was quiet, took the opportunity to walk Iris home.

  “What are you baking tomorrow?” I asked, lacing our fingers together, stomach pleasantly full of the chicken pot pie she’d brought me for dinner.

  It was a hell of a lot better than the wings and fries I normally inhaled while on shift, mainly because I wasn’t choking down raw celery in an attempt to be healthy.

  Buttery crust, well-cooked veg, juicy and tender chicken.

  Yeah, it wasn’t hard eating Iris’s food.

  She leaned her head on my arm as we walked, and I realized her pause in answering came from her doing some mental math. “Two hundred and thirty-seven pies. All mini-sized—eighty apple with my special, secret recipe sugar-dusted lattice tops, one-hundred chocolate custard, all decorated with silver and gold for a corporate New Year’s party, along with an additional fifty mini-cheesecakes topped with mixed berry compote for the non-chocolate lovers, three pumpkin, three cherry, and one pecan.” A beat. “Not going to ask?”

  I glanced down at her, smiling. “I was checking your math.”

  “Hmph,” she said, then lifted her head from my shoulder so she could reach into her purse and pull out her keys. “The last seven are for you.” A shrug. “Well, for you, Kace, and Brooke.”

  My eyes narrowed at the thought of Kace getting her pies.

  And yes, I knew I was feeling possessive, knew it was ridiculous, but she already had the fictional Kace to drool over. Why did the asshole need her pies, too? Brooke, I got. She was sweet, deserved something sweet in return.

  Iris smacked me lightly. “So scowly,” she murmured, rising on tiptoe to slant her lips across mine. “Because I mentioned Kace?”

  I growled. “Don’t say his name.”

  She grinned. “He’s married.”

  I grunted.

  “And madly in love with Brooke.”

  Another grunt.

  “Brooke, who promised me an advanced copy of her book if I traded her a pie.”

  More grunting.

  “Who also said that she wouldn’t share said pie with Kace.”

  That made me smile.

  Iris laughed. “God, Brent, I’m so happy I met you.”

  I touched her cheek. “You can’t know how lucky I am that you left your purse behind.” She sucked in her breath and I bent my head, taking her lips and kissing her like I’d been desperate to do from the first moment she’d shown up in Bobby’s the previous week. Just a few nights and my soul had been indelibly marked.

  That should have been terrifying.

  And yet, I wasn’t feeling the least bit scared, especially when she leaned in and whispered in my ear, “FYI, you get the most pies, because you’re the best,” and then nipped my earlobe.

  Goose bumps lifting on my skin.

  My cock going hard.

  But it wasn’t until she said, “They’re for you. And they’ll be the best ones, I promise,” that I felt my heart roll over in my chest.

  “Darlin’,” I said roughly, wrapping my arms around her and tugging her close, knowing that even though only a few days had passed betwee
n us, even though I was definitely scowly, even though I was feeling possessive and didn’t want to share any part of her with the rest of the world, that I was all in.

  But she wasn’t mine yet.

  I wanted her to be mine, wanted her to have me in return, even if it was stupid, even if the trade wasn’t remotely fair . . . I wanted her in my life.

  If my mom was still alive, she’d have told me off for jumping into something so quickly.

  If my dad was still alive, he would have told me that my jumping into something with a good woman like my mom had been, like Iris was, would be the smartest thing I’d ever done.

  Impossible to please them both, even if we were on opposite sides of the grave.

  But I still knew which one was going to be smiling down at me, telling me I’d made the smart choice.

  And that parent would be my dad.

  Then begrudgingly, my mom.

  Because . . . Iris and her pies. Iris and her sweet smile. Iris and her passion for Christmas, the hurt in her eyes when she told me of the betrayal of her ex, her friends.

  Because Iris was special and deserved to be with someone who recognized exactly how wonderful that special was.

  Which probably didn’t make sense.

  Or maybe it was all the big feelings filling me to bursting that had my mind going in ever-increasing circles. Those circles moving in one direction, growing larger and larger to encompass everything wonderful about the woman in front of me—the need to watch out for her, to care for her as she deserved, to prove I was worthy to make myself at home inside her soul, to promise that I’d make a safe space inside my soul for her in return, that had me doing some blurting of my own. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

  She frowned, head tilting to the side. “I thought . . . I kind of thought that’s what we were already doing?”

  It wasn’t no.

  It also wasn’t yes.

  “I want to take you out to a nice restaurant. To dress up and hold your hand over dinner, to tempt you into dessert, then to drive you home and kiss you on this doorstep,” I said, cupping both of her cheeks. “I want you to have a nice night, to do this right. Because I’m into you, darlin’, and I don’t think I want to let you go.”

  Her breath caught on an audible inhale.

  Then, “I’m into you, too.”

  My pulse had been thundering in my veins, but her words calmed the pounding, settled my heart.

  At least until she said, “But—”

  Thundering again, pounding so loud against my eardrums that I could barely hear her, and I definitely missed the mischief in her blue-green eyes. That I didn’t deduce until after the next exchange.

  “You have two things wrong.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “First, you never have to tempt me into dessert.”

  I relaxed, caught the mischief and smiled. “And the second?”

  “I don’t think I want you to stop with just kissing me on this doorstep,” she murmured, body drifting forward, brushing against mine and making dread slide through me. “I’d be inviting you in, inviting you upstairs.”

  Fuck. I hadn’t gotten that far.

  I should have gotten that far.

  I should have known it would lead there.

  But I just . . . hadn’t let my mind go there.

  Because I had a secret. A big, fucking secret that I needed to clue Iris into, one that would likely have all of her I’m into you, too turning into pity then turning into Yeah, no. That won’t work for me.

  I had to tell her.

  Now. Give her the out. Give myself the break of saving my heart from further damage when she invariably left.

  A gentle palm stroked along my jaw. “Brent, are you okay?”

  “Iris—”

  My cell rang.

  She stepped back. “It’s probably Kace,” she said. “You should answer it.”

  I reached into my back pocket and silenced it. “No. It’s not important. Iris—”

  It immediately began ringing again.

  “Answer it, honey,” she said, pulling my cell from my pocket and handing it to me.

  Kace’s name flashed on the screen. Shit. I’d been gone too long.

  “It’s a yes,” she said, swiping a finger on the screen before putting it up to my ear. “To the date.” Then she waved, opened the front door, and disappeared inside.

  I opened my mouth to tell her to wait, to stop, but then Kace’s voice drifted through the speakers.

  “I’m sorry, man, but there’s been a disturbance in the bar.”

  Fuck.

  “I need you back here now.”

  I didn’t follow Iris inside, didn’t tell her the secret that was weighing on me. I turned in the direction of Bobby’s and hauled my ass back.

  Later, I wished I’d stayed, had told her the truth right then and there.

  But by that time, it was too late.

  Eight

  Iris

  I was getting ready for a date.

  My first real date, if I was being honest with myself.

  Because I was just discounting everything from the Frank Period in my life. A.D. and B.C., except I was going to more aptly call them, B.F. and A.F.—as in, Before Frank and After Frank.

  Yeah. That.

  And after was going to be so much better than during.

  I slipped into my killer suede booties, arranged the cowl neck of my burgundy sweater dress to show just a little more cleavage.

  Because why not?

  I’d spent too much time in my life worrying about how things could go wrong, fluttering around, working my ass off to prevent them from happening, and . . . I was done, dammit.

  I’d done everything possible to make things work with Frank, including making myself feel small, putting what I wanted on the back burner.

  I’d wanted to rent a kitchen sooner, but he’d convinced me that I was going to fail, that it would be a risky financial decision to rent something. But then he’d used the money for a second Master’s degree, and while I appreciated him wanting to learn, had wanted to do my part to help build our future, to facilitate his dreams, I also knew now that I deserved to have some of my dreams come true, too.

  And I was starting by going on a date with a funny, kind, gorgeous man and continuing by not questioning everything that didn’t seem to make sense between us—including but not limited to: he was beautiful, I was not; he was a ten, I was a six on a good day; he was hilarious, I could occasionally make someone chuckle—

  “Enough, Iris,” I muttered.

  No more denigrating when I should be lifting myself up . . . because just . . . enough.

  It was funny—not ha-ha funny but strange funny—how I could proceed along a path without deviating, without seeing how fucked up it was for years, but that one conversation with Brooke had tipped me over the edge.

  I’d been thinking a lot since I found out about Frank.

  But I’d still been shouldering more than my fair share of the burden.

  Then, two nights before, Brooke—and squee! I was somehow on a first name basis with Brooke Freaking McAlister, my favorite author—but what she’d said hadn’t necessarily been book-related. She’d been talking about Kace, about taking a leap with him and finding the courage to put her heart on the line.

  “I realized I could either continue to live on the periphery,” she’d said, tucking a strand of her long, red hair behind one ear. “Or I could just live.”

  I’d smiled, teased her, even though those words collided heavily with my soul. “You should write books or something.”

  Brooke had grinned. “I’ve definitely got the or something part down,” she’d said. “At least, according to some of my readers,” she’d added when I’d given her a questioning look. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just got a lovely email this morning accusing me of writing filth, and the lady told me if she owned a car, she would use it to run over her Kindle, in hopes of it erasing the ‘disgusting tripe’ that
had crossed its screen.”

  Perspective.

  The living or being on the periphery part from Brooke.

  But also, the perspective that someone could think that the stories I so enjoyed, the slice of escapism and fun and, yes, occasionally the very steamy sex scene, were disgusting and horrible and something to be scrubbed out of existence.

  I didn’t want to be scrubbed out of existence. Or live constantly on the sidelines.

  “That would turn out to be a very expensive eBook,” I’d told Brooke. But inside I’d felt my realization like a punch to the gut. For so long, I’d seen myself in one way, seen my life moving in one direction . . . and I could change it.

  So . . . perspective.

  Then Brent had asked me out.

  Officially.

  And I was running with it.

  I pulled in a breath then released it slowly, trying to imagine all the remaining, niggling doubts and worries being exhaled as easily as carbon dioxide. I deserved to be happy and right now, Brent made me happy. I was mentally editing out what would normally go through my brain in that moment: for some reason—because no, dammit, not for some reason, not because it was insane he was attracted to me, not even because of the whole he was gorgeous, and I was not thing.

  I’d thought myself into a tiny compact ball, reduced everything good about me for way too long.

  Now was the time to be kinder.

  Now was the time for me to finally embrace that I deserved to find some happy.

  Now was the time for me to go after something I wanted.

  Today . . . that was Brent.

  Tomorrow? Maybe it would be Brent covered in cherry pie filling as I slowly licked it off his body. I grinned at myself in the mirror then reached for my jacket just as the doorbell rang.

  “You got this,” I told the optimistic woman in the reflection.

  The one that I almost didn’t recognize.

  The one I wanted to keep around anyway.

  I made it down the stairs in record time, clomping in my chunky-heeled booties across the hardwood floor to tug open the door.

  “Hi,” I said, a little breathless from the jog to the front of the house, but mostly breathless because it was Brent . . . and fuck could the man wear a suit. It was deep navy with a bright white shirt underneath. No tie, which was a shame because the outfit definitely gave me the urge to take him by the tie and drag him into the next room. But the shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way up, so I contented myself with fantasizing about caressing that triangle of exposed skin with my tongue . . . then maybe showing him how good my unbuttoning skills were as I made my way down.