Kiss My Cupcake(54)

“Save the flirting for someone you actually have a chance with, Lars,” Ronan says tonelessly.

I chuckle. “I should go. I’ll see you both later tonight.”

“Looking forward to it, Blaire,” Lars calls after me as I walk down the hall toward the back exit carrying the garment bag of dresses and shirts.

I wave at them both over my shoulder and head back to B&B in a buoyant mood.



My matchy-matchy plan turns out to be a great one. We look adorable in our coordinated outfits, and they make for fantastic social media posts. The first few collaborative events go over really well. Both of our businesses see an increase in revenue, and the more we work together the busier we get. Meanwhile, we’re holding our own in the Best Bar competition, although Ronan’s a few spots above me.

We each end up having to hire another bartender so we can keep up with the new demands on our promotional nights. As the holidays approach, I suggest that we collaborate on a New Year’s event and Ronan agrees.

It’s much more involved and means planning sessions take place outside of business hours, not in our respective bars where interruptions abound. Which is how I end up at Ronan’s apartment on a Sunday night after hours. Well, my hours, not his. He left work early so I wouldn’t end up completely bleary-eyed in the morning.

“Do you mind if I change real quick so I don’t smell like stale beer and wing sauce?” Ronan asks once we’re in his apartment.

“Not at all.”

“Great. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.” He motions to the living room with the oversized dark leather furniture. The whole place is rustic with warm tones, like an open-concept cottage transplanted into an apartment building in the city. The floors are dark, rough-hewn hardwood and although I’m wearing tights, I shiver as the cold hits the soles of my feet and travels up my spine.

I cross over to the pictures hung on the walls, taking them in with new eyes now that I know more about the history of the bar and Ronan’s relationship with his grandfather. It makes me sad that he lost his parents at such a young age.

As whacked out as my family may be, I’m lucky to have them. They love me in their own weird way. There are a few more photos of an older Ronan with his grandfather and grandmother. I don’t know if it’s just me, but his smile doesn’t seem quite as bright. Maybe they were taken not long after he lost his parents.

Ronan returns a minute later wearing a pair of loose jogging pants and a T-shirt. He’s changed from contacts to glasses. His hair is less than perfect, as if he rushed to change. The shirt pulls tight across his chest and hugs his biceps. I can’t complain about the view.

He holds up a pair of wool socks—the kind with a cream and red band at the top. “The floors are kind of cold in here. I thought you might want these.”

He meets me halfway across the living room to pass them over. Without my heels on he’s quite a bit taller than me, so I have to tip my head back to look up at him. “Thanks, my feet are perpetually cold. I’m pretty much in slippers between October and April.”

“Or heels.” He inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Come have a seat and I’ll make us a drink before we get down to business.”

I hoist myself up on a stool and pull on the warm wool socks. They’re so big they almost reach my knees. Ronan roots around in the fridge and returns with four bottles, which he lines up in front of me. “Do you like craft beer?”

“Depends on the beer, but I’m always game to try something new.” I pick up the one closest to me and read the handwritten label. “Rhubarb ale?”

“I have a few new flavors I’ve been trying out and I need a guinea pig. I can pour us each a flight and you can sample a few?”

“Sounds good. Can I help with anything?”

“Nope. I’ve got it covered.”

While Ronan pours us beers, I take the opportunity to inspect his body art more closely. From my vantage point, I have a great view of the woman’s portrait surrounded by blooming roses. I reach out and trace the contour of her face.

Ronan’s in the middle of pouring a beer, and I startle him with the unexpected contact, so some of it sloshes onto the counter.

“Oh! Sorry. That’s my fault; let me clean that up.” I hop off the stool and grab the closest rag.

“That’s okay, I got it.” His fingers wrap around my wrist and that warm, buttery feeling coasts through my veins. I’m sure my face is red. You’d think with the amount of time we spend together that I’d have gotten over my fascination with his art and the way his touch seems to affect me, but if anything it’s gotten worse, not better. Or maybe more intense is a more accurate way to explain it? I don’t know, but I’m definitely attracted to him.

Acting on that would not be a good idea. Too complicated. What if he’s bad in bed and we still have to cohost all of these events? Or worse, what if he thinks I’m bad in bed? And why am I suddenly thinking about sleeping with him just because he’s making innocuous physical contact?

“Blaire, I got it. No big deal,” he repeats, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hand wrapped around my wrist, lost in my own head. I hope it wasn’t for long.

“Really, I startled you. I can clean it up.”

“Blaire.” This time his tone makes me look up.