Kiss My Cupcake(61)

He lets go of me and I drop my arms. I watch him walk away, stiffly.

Lars appears beside me. “Where’s Ronan going?”

“He’s taking a minute to collect himself.” I don’t mean to go with such blatant honesty.

Lars smirks and jerks his chin up. “I bet he is. Dude’s been staring at your legs for the past half hour like he’s watching a damn striptease. You two just need to hook up and get it over with. The sexual tension is making me all edgy and shit.” He slings his towel over his shoulder and saunters back to the bar where he’s skewering fruit for cocktails.

I glance up at the mistletoe hanging from the lights and consider how it might come in handy later.

By four thirty in the afternoon we’re completely set up, the food is prepped, tables are decorated, and menus are laid out. Now it’s just a matter of changing, freshening my makeup, and mainlining about four gallons of coffee.



The evening doesn’t go off without a hitch; there are glitches. B&B runs out of the top-shelf vodka, but Ronan is there to save the day with his own stock. Thankfully we’ve agreed to split costs and revenue, so it’s not a big deal. One of the servers slips on a French fry and loses an entire tray of cupcakes, but overall it’s an incredible success. And while there’s a line outside of Dick and Bobby’s celebrating their grand opening, we’re at max capacity and end up having to turn people away, which is unfortunate but also a good thing.

The adrenaline pumping through my veins means I’m probably going to crash hard when the bar finally closes, but for the time being I’m enjoying the success of the event.

As midnight approaches, I find myself behind the bar with Ronan, mixing drinks. His fireworks-patterned tie is thrown over his shoulder so it doesn’t soak up anything spilled on the bartop. Despite the extra staff, they can’t seem to keep up with the demands and the lineup to get to the bar is three deep as people order champagne cocktails to toast the New Year.

I lost my heels hours ago in exchange for the steel-toe boots required behind the bar, which means I’ve also lost three inches of height, and I have to stretch to reach the bottles on the high shelves.

Ronan reaches over me and grabs the bottle I need, then bends so his mouth is at my ear, shouting over the music so I can hear him. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.” His lips brush the shell as he speaks, sending a warm shiver down my spine.

I nod because I’ve been shouting most of the night and my voice is pretty much gone. The front of my fireworks-and-champagne-glasses dress is damp from leaning over the bar, and I smell like champagne and beer, but I couldn’t be happier.

We work together, passing bottles and garnishes without having to speak because we each seem to know what the other needs. He reaches around behind me, our bodies touching constantly as we pour and serve, pour and serve.

Then the countdown begins, and there’s a tiny pause in the mayhem behind the bar as the crowd raise their drinks in the air, shouting and laughing their way into the New Year.

“Here, take this.” Ronan wraps my hand around a shot glass and clinks his own against it.

“What is it?”

“Just drink it,” he shouts.

We raise our glasses to our lips and I knock back the shot. Shouts of “Happy New Year!” rise to almost unbearable levels as it burns its way down my throat.

“Happy New Year!” Lars screams and gives us a double hug and then points to the light above us. “Look up.” And then he’s off down the bar, yelling “Happy New Year!” at the top of his lungs.

Ronan and I look up at the same time and realize that we happen to be standing directly under one of the sprigs of mistletoe. Our gazes meet, and I can see the resolve in his eyes. I’m sure the few shots we’ve done behind the bar tonight are fully responsible for what happens next.

Ronan slips one hand around my waist and pulls me against him. He tips his head to the side fractionally: a silent question. I respond by sliding my hands over his chest to lock them behind his neck, tugging gently as I tip my chin up.

His other hand curves around my nape as he dips down and his warm, minty breath mingles with mine. “Happy New Year, Blaire.”

“Happy New Year, Ronan.”

A shock of energy lights me up like a neon sign, zinging through my veins as our lips meet for the first time. It’s a full-body tingle, starting at my scalp, working its way down my body. Heat funnels straight between my thighs and my toes curl.

We tip our heads in opposite directions, lips parting, tongues sliding against each other. He groans and I moan as we open wider, tongues stroking deeper. I grip the back of his neck and the hand on my waist drifts lower. Cupping my left butt cheek, Ronan pulls me tighter against him. I feel him hard against my stomach, and I press my hips closer.

I’m pretty sure the kiss would have lasted forever—or until we got naked—except the sudden hoots, hollers, and shrill whistles remind us that we’re not even remotely alone.

We break apart and I worry for a second that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Realistically it’s not a good plan to get involved with my competition/neighbor, but that was one hell of a kiss.

Ronan blinks a couple of times and blows out a breath. “I don’t think we’re in Wonderland anymore, Alice.”

I laugh, glad he’s broken the tension.