Kiss My Cupcake(35)

“At the very least you’ll be able to thaw them the rest of the way in a water bath, won’t you?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” He watches me measure ingredients, turn on the mixer and set the timer before I move to a smaller one to prepare the chocolate buttercream for the triple chocolate cupcakes. My dad put in a special request for those. He put in several special requests. Sometimes it’s hard to understand why he just won’t let me live my dream when it’s so clear I know what I’m doing.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing a dress and working with chocolate.”

“I do everything in a dress.”

One of his eyebrows lifts.

“Almost everything,” I amend. I don’t know why my mind immediately goes to sex on account of his eyebrow raise. Possibly because Ronan’s hair is sticking out all over the place like he’s just been screwed? Or because he looks half–book nerd and half badass with the glasses, sweats, and full sleeves. Or because I haven’t had it in forever.

I’ll go with the last one.

I stick my head in the fridge and take far longer than necessary to retrieve the milk so he can’t see my embarrassment.

“Do you ever wear pants?”

“Not often.”

“What about when you’re at home?”

“I still prefer dresses most of the time. I mean, of course I have things like leggings for when it gets cold, but this is how I’m most comfortable.” I push up on my toes to try to reach the container of icing sugar. I don’t know why Paul insists on putting it up this high all the time. Probably because he gets a chuckle out of it.

“Why?”

I look over my shoulder. “Why did you cover your arms in tattoos?”

“Because I want to wear my memories, see them every day and remember.” It seems a lot like an unfinished sentence. He hops off his stool, plucks the canister from the shelf and hands it to me. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you more comfortable in dresses than pants? You have killer calves, and the waist up is easy on the eyes. I gotta imagine whatever you’re hiding under those skirts matches the rest of you.”

I give him a sideways look. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation, and if you’d like to take it as a compliment, feel free.”

I laugh. “This is my style.” There’s actually a lot more to it than just being my style, but it’s not really something I tend to share with people, let alone a rival bar owner who barely tolerates me and is probably humoring me. “Just like plaid shirts and black rimmed glasses and sleeve tattoos are yours.”

“I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to take offense to it.”

“Does that mean it’s going to be offensive?”

Ronan chuckles. “I think it could be misconstrued as an insult when that’s not how I intend it.”

“Go ahead then.” I check on the icing and start measuring out the ingredients for the chocolate buttercream.

“You give off this classy pinup girl vibe crossed with a fifties housewife, but you’re an entrepreneur. It’s sort of a contradiction, isn’t it? And here you are, all dressed up at nine in the morning, making me coffee and whipping up buttercream icing.”

“I made you coffee because you looked like you needed a break and a shot. And do you mean to say I don’t look like I should be taken seriously because I’m not wearing a pantsuit?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sometimes it’s good to be underestimated, don’t you think?” I set another timer for seven minutes while I let the butter cream.

“I don’t think it’s about underestimating you. I mean, clearly you have vision and business savvy, but you don’t come across as…threatening, I guess.”

“Sort of goes hand in hand with being underestimated.” I dip a spoon into the chocolate ganache and hand it to him, before I do the same for myself. My sample is much smaller than his. I wait until he’s done groaning his way through the spoonful before I ask another question. “So tell me about The Knight Cap. Your grandfather owns it and you decided to come work with him? Or take it over?”

“He lost my grams a little over a year ago; they worked here together since they were teenagers, so doing it without her was…hard. That’s what all the framed couple pictures are about on the wall opposite the booths. It’s the story of their life together, which was spent at the bar for the most part.”

I press my hand to my chest. “Did they meet there?”

“They did.” He nods, his eyes suddenly far away. “The bar has been in our family for three generations. Gramps bartended and Grams was a waitress. Fell head over heels in love with each other. Caused a big ruckus since she was a few years younger than him and her parents were hoping she’d marry up, but no one and nothing could keep them apart.” He smiles softly; it’s full of fondness and sadness. “They even dated in secret for a while. Lots of backroom and closet stories, I’m sure. Not that Gramps would ever disrespect Grams by telling any of them.”

I laugh and then sigh. “Did she get sick?”

“Uh no, she was healthy all the way to the end, thankfully. She had a heart attack and passed in her sleep.” He flips his spoon absently between his fingers.