If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(58)

She rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, I don’t drink that much of them.”

“Verily, Sigrid, you do.”

“Verily!” She laughs. “Now who’s talking like a nerd?”

I laugh, too. “Maybe I am a giant nerd, and you just didn’t know it. I’m a man of many mysteries.”

Ziggy glances my way, her expression changing to something soft, something curious. Something that makes me want to kiss her. Very badly. “I know you are.”

I stare at her, telling myself to do what I promised myself I would—stay strong, keep my hands to myself. I won’t let myself wrench her onto my lap and kiss her until her hair and the sky are the same breathtaking fiery color, until all I know is that flame-bright beauty wrapped around me, the sea breeze mingling with her sweet clean scent and the warm satin softness of her skin beneath my hands.

Steeling myself, I exhale slowly, steadily. But it’s hard to do that, let alone think straight, when Ziggy stares at me, too.

Slowly she leans in. I hold my breath, telling myself I won’t let her kiss me—if she’s going to kiss me. God, I want her to kiss me. God, I shouldn’t want her to kiss me—

She swipes her thumb across the corner of my mouth, then brings it to her own and sucks it clean. “See?” she whispers. “Just what I like. A little taste.”

I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. I can barely breathe. Sunset bathes her face in tangerine light, makes her eyes sparkle. Ziggy blushes, a pink-peach blossom on her cheeks as she stares at me.

And then she leans in again. I…well, I lean in, too.

Because I’m weak. So fucking weak for her.

We’re closer, closer—

And then my phone blasts, my security app emitting a sound that means my doorbell’s been rung.

I swear under my breath and duck my head. Ziggy springs out of her chair so fast, she nearly drops her muffin to the deck, juggling it a few times before she catches it firmly. “Groceries are here!” she says brightly, darting past me toward the doors that lead inside.

I slump back into the deck chair and scrape my hands through my hair.

Generally, I’m a deep lover of grocery delivery, the fact that all I need to eat, for a small fee and tip, can be delivered right to my doorstep without my leaving the comfort of home or having to brave the public.

Right now, I have never hated grocery delivery more.





“Well, Sigrid.” I fold flat the last paper bag from our grocery delivery and set it on my kitchen counter. “I’m impressed.”

“Impressed? Why?” She slides a box of gluten-free cornbread mix onto my pantry shelf, then reaches for the gluten-free pasta boxes on the counter beside her.

“Just…how much you know about gluten-free eating. What brands are good, which ones are shit. Look at all this. I have everything I could possibly think of, and then some.”

She glances over her shoulder, smiling at me. “I told you, it’s all Rooney. It’s her list. She’s the true gluten-free expert. I only added a few things of my own that I’ve picked up along the way, stuff I’ve noticed has met my brother’s culinary standards.”

“His culinary standards?”

“Axel’s the meal maker in their family,” she explains. “Rooney can’t cook to save her life.”

“And Rooney’s the one who has celiac?”

“No.” She lines up the gluten-free pasta by type, straightening out the boxes. “She has ulcerative colitis. They just figured out that it helps with her symptoms, eating gluten-free.”

“Really.” I open up my freezer to add the gluten-free pizzas that Ziggy swore by.

“Lots of people eat this way. It’s a lot more common than it used to be, so that’s a silver lining. More yummy options for you than for people who got diagnosed even a couple years ago. And you can afford them.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. This shit’s expensive.”

She turns, fishing around the counter for something. “Sebastian, I didn’t want to pry earlier, when we were at the bakery getting our treats, and you asked if I knew anything about gluten-free groceries, not just baked goods, because I was more than happy to help, but… Wouldn’t your personal chef handle this for you? Your assistant? You can ask them for help with this, you know.”

I come so close to swallowing the words, keeping them to myself, but dammit, she has this infuriating power to yank out my honesty like there’s a hook she’s sunk inside me and all it takes is a little tug on her end to reel it right out.

“I don’t like other people in my house. It’s my safe space, and it doesn’t feel safe when people are traipsing around it all the time. I don’t have an assistant. Or a personal chef.”

She blinks at me, clearly surprised. “Oh…okay.”

“Surprised Mr. Fancy Pants doesn’t have a minion for every possible need? Shocked I don’t pay someone to wipe my ass?”

She lobs a bag of gluten-free rolls at my head, which wouldn’t be too big a deal, if they weren’t frozen. “Christ, you have an arm on you.”

She glares at me, but it’s playful. “You have to admit you emit a very bougie, fancy pro-athlete vibe.”

“I admit that,” I tell her, picking up the rolls and reading the ingredients. Apparently there are twelve different grains that go into making a decent gluten-free baked good. And xanthan gum. Everything has xanthan gum.