Kiss My Cupcake(56)

I battle the fabric down and use a throw pillow—there’s only one and it looks like it might have been cross-stitched by a grandmother—to keep it from poofing up again.

“I’d offer you a pair of jogging pants, but I think you’d swim in mine.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“You don’t look all that comfortable.”

He gives me the raised eyebrow and I stare at him for a few more seconds before I finally give in, stand up, pull the crinoline down and step out of it. It holds its shape for a few long seconds, resembling a pretty fabric volcano before it sinks into a puddle on the floor.

“Happy now?” I sit back down and tuck my legs back under the skirt again.

“As long as you’re happy and comfortable, I’m happy and comfortable. You wear that thing every day?”

“It’s comfy, for the most part.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He motions to the spread. “Help yourself, but let me give you a rundown of the beers and what goes best with which snack.” He describes each craft brew: pumpkin, orange, rhubarb, and a hopped mango ale and tells me which snack to pair it with. I take a sip after each description, then follow it with a nibble of the accompanying snack so I can experience the way the flavors complement one another. “Where did these beers come from? They’re all delicious.” I go back to the rhubarb ale, because I favor the hint of sweetness and the tart, gentle tang that follows the initial bitterness of the hops.

“I made them.”

“What? When would you have time for that?”

“Gramps let me set up a brew in his garage. It’s just small batches, but I think it’ll be enough to have some decent options for New Year’s. What do you think?”

I set my beer down and clap my hands excitedly, and then grab his. “Oh my God! What about a craft beer and champagne theme! We can have specialty cupcakes based on the beer flavors and champagne. You can host the dinner and I’ll handle dessert. Do you think we can apply to have a gated outdoor space so people can go back and forth between our places as long as there’s security? Or is that too much? It might be too much.”

“I think it’s a great idea, and it’s sort of exactly what I was already thinking.”

“I’ll shut down B&B at ten and move the party over to The Knight Cap. We can have a cupcake table and appetizers and all the delicious craft beer. This is going to be fantastic.”

We spend the next hour sipping beers, eating snacks, and planning our New Year’s co-celebration. I start to get tired—beer hits me a lot faster than vodka for some reason—and when Ronan excuses himself to the bathroom, I stretch out and close my eyes for a few seconds.

I blink and try to roll over, but my face hits…a wall? No wait. Walls aren’t soft, and they aren’t made of…leather? I blink a couple of times, but close my eyes right away because the morning sun is streaming through the windows, blinding me. It’s enough time for me to come to the conclusion that I’m not in my own apartment.

Panic takes over for a few disorienting seconds until the familiar smell of Ronan’s cologne registers. I blink again, still trying to adjust to the light beyond my eyelids.

I can’t believe I fell asleep. Well, that’s not true; I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, working long hours, basically seven days a week, since the beginning of the summer. That I passed out on Ronan’s couch isn’t much of a surprise. That he didn’t wake me up and send me home sort of is.

Or maybe he tried and failed. That would be both embarrassing and not entirely impossible given the above facts.

I note the soft pillow tucked under my head—not the cross-stitched one I was hugging last night. I’m also covered in a blanket that smells like Ronan. On the table beside me is a glass of water.

The food and drinks from last night have been cleared away and sit on the counter across the room. I must have passed out so hard. I check the time. It’s barely after seven, but I have to stop at home to change at the very least and manage my makeup situation, so there’s no way I’m going to make it in before eight thirty. I’m glad I had the foresight to prepare most of the cupcakes for today last night, otherwise we’d be in real short supply this morning.

I throw off the covers, consider leaving them in a heap, but decide that’s super rude, so I fold everything—half-assed folding, but still—and look around the floor for my crinoline.

I spot all my stuff—purse, laptop, clipboard, and crinoline—on the club chair across from the couch. I can sincerely appreciate Ronan’s tidiness.

Once my mess is straightened up, I find a piece of paper, scribble an apology and a thank you, and gather up my things, shoving the crinoline in my purse because carrying it is awkward.

Of course my attempt to make a stealthy exit is thwarted when my purse knocks into a wooden sculpture of a beaver and it clatters to the floor. I carefully put it back, glad it wasn’t glass, and tiptoe to the door, careful not to bang into anything else. I realize I’m still wearing Ronan’s socks, so I have to take those off before I can slip my feet into my shoes. This also requires me to set down all the things I’m carrying because the socks are clinging to my tights.

“Morning.” The gravelly voice gives me pause.

“I’m so sorry I fell asleep on you.” I turn to give him an apologetic smile to go with the verbal one, but I’m pretty sure all I’m capable of is drooling. “Oh.” I’m excessively breathy as I murmur, “Good morning to me.”