Peace, Love, & Macarons Read online

  "I forgot!" she said, reaching inside and pulling out some kind of marbled chocolate torte. "I was supposed to bring this Queen of Sheba French Chocolate torte over to Ginny's! It's her daughter's birthday tonight."

  I felt my eyes narrow as she, maybe for the first time, lied to me without making it clear she was doing so- being shit at it in general.

  "No worries. We will wait for you," Brant said.

  "No no. That won't work. I was supposed to stay for the party too. Oh, well," she said, putting the torte on the counter and reaching for her coat which she so conveniently left hanging by the back door off the kitchen instead of the front where she always kept her coat. "You two enjoy. Save me a plate. Oh, and I have an extra slice of torte in the fridge too," she added, heading out the door.

  An 'extra' slice.

  The torte she had was complete.

  So she had made a second torte and then went ahead and only brought one slice home because she wanted me and Brant to share one.

  "Slick," Brant said, making me twist my neck around to look up at him, an action that actually made me rest my head on his very solid chest.

  "What?"

  "Slick," he said, looking down at me, smile pulling at his lips. "Your mother. I thought she was up to something. I didn't think it was this."

  "This," I said, feigning innocence. I figured it was the safest move.

  I reconsidered that stance all of one second later when Brant's arm raised and his forefinger traced slowly, oh so gently, down my jaw before snagging my chin between it and his thumb.

  "Setting us up."

  "She's not..."

  "Sure she is," he said, his thumb moving out to stroke over my cheek in a way that was way too intimate, way too delicious, way too effective. "She loves you. You're her world. You just had your heart stomped on by some guy who didn't deserve you in the first place. And she knows me. She put part of her business in my hands. She trusts me. It makes sense if you think about it."

  The scary thing was, it did make sense.

  Not just her setting us up, but us giving it a try. That made sense. We worked in the same place. We had both lived in the City and found that it wasn't for us. We both loved coffee and desserts and running and movies and plays and art and all the countless other little things I had learned over the past few weeks from the occasional short discussion we shared a couple times a week.

  "Right, ah, well," I said, swallowing hard and yanking away before I could do anything stupid. You know, like tell him that my panties were still wet from something as seemingly innocuous as his laugh from five minutes ago. "She's right. We should just... eat. I know her. She won't be back for hours and we both had a long day on our feet," I babbled as I grabbed the tray of baked macaroni and brought it with me toward the dining room. "Can you grab the salad and garlic bread?" I called without looking back at him.

  And then I chose to sit at the head of the table which was normally my mother's spot but I figured it was a subliminal distance thing. He put down his plates and we started serving ourselves up in a weird, tense silence.

  He was the first to break it after I was two bites into the small salad I served myself, hoping if we ate fast, the awkward affair would be over more quickly and I could be put out of my misery. And maybe spend just a little quality time with my vibrator.

  "You seem happier, sweetheart," he said, making my belly do a wobble thing. What can I say, I was a sucker for endearments.

  "It's weird. I can't explain it. I was in a rush to get out of here at eighteen, to see all the things the City had to offer. And I thought I was happy with all those things I found. But then I come back here, begrudgingly I might add, and it's like I found..." I trailed off, struggling for the right way to describe it.

  "Peace," he filled in for me.

  That was exactly right.

  "Yeah," I agreed, nodding.

  Then he went ahead and got a little invasive. "Have you heard from the ex?"

  I actually had. Twice. I hadn't expected that. When you pulled such a dick move, who in their right mind would try to reach out?

  Apparently Rich.

  "Yeah," I admitted, reaching for my wine. "He texted once and called once."

  "The fuck could he have to say to you?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

  And, well, I hadn't even told my mother because I thought she would overreact. And all my old friends from the City were Rich's friends too so I didn't feel right bitching to them about him. It felt nice to be able to talk about it.

  "The text was a basic 'how are you holding up' text and the call was an 'I miss you' voicemail to my machine."

  "Hope you told him he can go eat a dick," Brant said, making me snort into my wineglass. That was, more or less, what my text response had been before I decided it was better for the both of us if I just blocked his number. "Seriously. Don't fall for that bullshit, Maddy. A man loves a woman, really fucking loves her, he doesn't give her up over something as trivial as money."

  "I know that," I agreed, feeling the weird warm sensation spread across my chest again.

  "You don't seem overly broken up about it," he observed. "You gave him what? Five years of your life."

  I nodded at that. "They weren't bad years," I defended. "We had a lot of good times together even if maybe they had been a bit superficial. I don't regret them. Though I do regret being a bit blind to the fact that I was second in his heart... to money."

  "Not the type to wallow, huh?" he asked, as I moved my pasta around my plate, finding I actually liked the conversation more than the food.

  My mother never liked the topic of Rich and when he did come up, she got these lines between her brows that said she didn't want to talk about the guy who broke her daughter's heart.

  "What good does wallowing do?" I shrugged. "I mean there is science to this kind of thing. The actual pain of it only lasts a really short time. It's the obsessive wondering and what-if'ing and mourning for your loss that makes you shrivel up in a ball for weeks or months. I have nothing to wonder or what-if or mourn. He didn't love me enough. Case closed. Someday someone will. Or maybe some day a dozen or so cats will. Whatever."

  "Maddy, you're not going to end up with a dozen cats."

  "I dunno. I can see myself being like my mom- throwing myself into work, taking pride in whatever place I eventually settle down in, making close friendships."

  "And that would be a damn shame," he said, shaking his head. "A woman like you shouldn't give up on men because one was a fucking moron who didn't know what he had."

  "A woman like me," I repeated, brows drawn together.

  "Please, you gotta see you are something special, right? You have that small town upbringing goodness and that sharp, smart, quick-witted big city education. It's the whole package. Men will be pounding down this door when they think they have given you a respectable amount of time to get over your breakup."

  I let that sink in for a second, finding it wholly uncomfortable, then quickly tried to change the subject. "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "Why are you single?" I asked, pushing my plate away and just accepting it was going to be a wine-for-dinner night. "There isn't exactly a surplus of eligible men in town. The single women must be practically throwing themselves at you."

  I realized that comment was a mistake pretty much the second after it was out of my mouth. Because his smile went wicked; his eyes danced. I knew exactly what was going to follow.

  "Think I'm hot shit, huh?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, looking way too self-satisfied.

  "I mean... by small town standards," I shrugged, hoping I was coming off as casual I slowly stood and collected my plate to bring to the kitchen.

  I had scraped the plate and was standing at the sink running water over it when I suddenly felt his entire body press up behind mine, making my hips push against the cabinet as my breath whooshed out of me.

  I hadn't even heard him follow me in.

  But there
he was, touching me from feet to shoulder.

  One of his hands moved out and settled on my hip, fingers pressing into the hipbone hollow as his other hand slid gently up my arm and brushed my hair from one side of my neck to the other.

  Before I could guess his intention, I felt his lips press in to the column of my neck, making my entire body do a shiver at the unexpected contact that shot from the touch to directly between my legs.

  My head tipped to the side, giving him more access as his mouth moved slowly upward, the hint of his tongue tracing over the skin he kissed as I shamelessly leaned back into him. His arm on my hip slid across my lower belly, anchoring me to him as his lips went around my earlobe, his tongue tracing the outer edge and ripping an almost pained moan from between my lips.

  My skin felt electric, buzzy, humming, begging for more of the sensation.

  But he wasn't in the mind to give it to me.

  Instead, his lips left my skin entirely and I felt the side of his face press into my hair. When he spoke, his voice low and rumbling, causing another rush of desire so strong it was borderline painful; his breath was warm on my ear. "By small town standards, how wet are your panties right now?"

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  He did not just say that. No way. Not when need was a live wire through my system. No way was he just trying to get back at me for maybe offending his pride slightly.

  The asshole.

  I didn't think he would be so freaking sensitive. He gave every appearance of being laid-back.

  My mouth opened and shut several times before words finally forced their way out. And when they did, they were my freaking mother's words.

  "Don't be crass," I snapped, shoving back against his body and sliding away toward the fridge, grabbing the torte because, quite frankly, my own pride was bruised a bit and the only way to fix it was to act completely unaffected.

  Though I was affected.

  Completely.

  I took a slow breath as I grabbed two forks and a knife, cutting the already small slice in half and putting it on a new plate before shoving it into his chest. He raised a brow at me, but said nothing as he sank in his fork and started eating his dessert. Just to have something to do, I ate mine as well, keeping most of my focus on the torte itself until it was gone.

  It was right about then as well that his plate slammed down on the counter beside me, making me jump and my gaze fly up as I suddenly felt my own plate pulled from my hand to join his. "French are good at baking," he said oddly, moving in front of me, his knee pressing between my thighs and pinning me against the cabinet. "There's another thing the French do well..." he said, voice trailing off as his hand slid behind me and grabbed me at the base of my neck, yanking my body against his just a second before his lips crashed down on mine.

  It started hard and rough, his lips bruising into mine, demanding things I didn't even think of denying him. But feeling my surrender, his lips became softer, more explorative. His tongue traced the seam of my lips and they opened for him, his tongue moving inside to show me what the French did well. But he was wrong. The French could go suck it. No one kissed like him.

  My fingers slid up his arms, feeling the firm muscles underneath, then around his shoulders, folding around the back of his neck and completely pressing every inch of my body to his.

  My breasts swelled, my nipples hardening against his chest as my hips melded to his- feeling his hardness against my belly and I felt another rush of desire at the realization that he was just as affected as I was.

  A low, throaty whimper escaped me and his growl in response was maybe the hottest sound I had ever heard.

  Then, seemingly just as quickly as it started, it was over.

  His tongue retreated and his lips pressed a sweet kiss to my lips before his forehead came down to rest on the top of my head as we both seemed to struggle to catch breath.

  It was right about then that my common sense seem to kick back in as well.

  What the hell had we just done?

  We worked together.

  We lived next door to each other.

  He was a good friend to my mother.

  If we screwed around and it went badly, it wasn't just a simple 'shrug it off and move on' thing. It would impact every aspect of our lives until one or both of us moved or moved on.

  And, quite frankly, after one shitstorm of a relationship, I didn't need any more complications from the opposite sex.

  "You can try to find ways to stop this from happening," he said and I realized he had pulled back to look down at me, "but we both know it is going to happen."

  Then with that and not a single thing more, he released me, stepped away, and disappeared out the back door.

  I sank back against the counter, feeling my heartbeat slamming hard against my ribcage, my lips still tingling from his, my face overly sensitive from the scrape of his scruff.

  And I was almost overwhelmingly sure that what he had just said wasn't just some kind of hopeful declaration.

  It seemed a hell of a lot like a premonition.

  Pound Cake

  Maddy

  Nothing happened.

  I cleaned up dinner. I went up to bed. My mother came home and went to bed as well. The next day, I woke up to breakfast as usual- a cherry scone. I went for a run after I knew Brant was already home showering.

  And nothing happened.

  My mother didn't grill me about what happened.

  Brant didn't seem even the least bit different.

  It was all so normal that I was genuinely starting to wonder if the entire night had been some incredibly vivid dream. Were there not still the tiniest bit of red on my face from his scruff that I had covered up with some makeup, I would have genuinely been able to believe that.

  After that, everything just fell into place like nothing had gone on. But it had and for reasons I didn't choose to analyze, it was what was the ever-present dominant thought in my head every single day afterward.

  While he was making my coffee and keeping up light conversation about silly things like the local groundhog predicting six more weeks of winter or the local small business association getting into a heated debate over something as silly as fresh coats of paint, all I could seem to do was watch his lips. After a long day of trying to pretend his very presence didn't seem to keep me in a constant state of arousal, I went home and thought about him in bed and then again in the shower in the morning- to prepare for a long day around him.

  Meanwhile, he seemed completely unaffected.

  The bastard.

  I was a hormonal mess and he seemed fine. Even though he was the one who was insisting something was going to happen with me and him.

  So then Groundhog's Day rolled into the next week and I had about a million macarons stacked in the shelves for the seemingly endless stream of men (and some women) coming in to pick up treats for their sweethearts for Valentine's Day.

  Now, when I was with Rich, I genuinely did not care about Valentine's Day. And while he always remembered and got me something, we tended to spend the day in bed watching reruns of some sitcom and not actually engaging in the so-called holiday.

  It was a stupid day.

  The thing was, I forgot that Valentine's Day when you were single was completely different from when you were in a relationship. If you were shacked up with someone and said you didn't celebrate, no biggie. But when you were single, you got the look. And you got the comments about how you would find someone some day.

  After about six hours of that, well, even I was starting to feel a deep sense of unhappiness crushing down on me. I literally felt weighted by it, like there was something trying to drag me down to the floor where I was expected to cry and bemoan my singledom like any respectable woman steadily heading past acceptable marriageable age.

  "Honey, why don't you take a coffee break?" my mother asked, knowing me well enough to know I was losing my battle with my emotions. "I have this. It's dwindling down."r />
  It wasn't.

  But I was too grateful to fight with her over a short reprieve.

  "How you holding up?" Brant asked, reaching for a large hot cup to get me my usual black coffee.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

  "Got ears, sweetheart. I don't think a single woman has walked past you without making a comment about you being alone."

  "I guess women's lib hasn't quite made it all the way to this sleepy little town. I apparently need a man to be a complete person. Who knew?" He gave me a sympathetic smile as he disappeared for a second to make my coffee. "They don't pester you?" I blurted out as I reached for the cup he passed toward me.

  "About being single? Nah."

  "But you're older than me," I insisted.

  "As about ten women have told me so far today, I apparently have 'plenty of time' to settle down."

  "Sexist," I grumbled, folding back the tab on the coffee and bringing it up. "This isn't coffee," I accused immediately as the rich smell of chocolate met my nose, making me almost want to groan. Okay, I totally wanted to groan. Just not in front of him. Fine, I absolutely wanted to groan in front of him. But in a private setting with his hands and mouth all over me.

  "Figured you needed a pick-me-up."

  "You told me you wouldn't give me something like this again. Not even if I begged," I reminded him.

  "Well, it's made with water, not full-fat milk and there is only a tiny bit of whipped cream," he said, casual as could be. Which was why I took a sip as he leaned across the counter toward me, not thinking anything of it. Until he went ahead and added in a voice low enough that only the two of us could hear, "And the next time you beg me for something, Maddy, it's gonna be my cock."

  I nearly choked to death.

  And he just casually walked away, wiping the counter.

  "You alright there, Maddy?" Eddie, the local handyman, asked, slamming his hand into my back as I tried to breathe properly again.

  "I... ah... fine," I managed between coughs. "Wrong pipe," I added, shaking my head, catching Brant watching me from the corner of my eye, cocky smirk in place.