“Sorry, Ronan. I know you had big plans for today.”

He waves him off. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Lars takes a step toward the door.

“Yeah. Thanks for coming in early. I know you’d rather be sleeping.”

Lars leaves and Ronan slips his hands in his pockets and drops his head with a sigh.

I feel awful for him. Thanksgiving can be a good opportunity to make money, if you have the food to serve. “Do you need any help with anything?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Nah. Guess I’m gonna sit on the couch and watch football today.”

“Why don’t you come over and I’ll make you a boozy coffee.” I incline my head toward B&B. It’s really the least I can do.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah, sure. Why not? It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I’d be offended, but I don’t think it’s a personal attack, more that he’s upset about the sudden and unexpected crappy turn his day took.

I make us both special lattes, his spiked with booze, mine not since I have some baking to do. “I need to frost some cupcakes. If you’re interested in hanging around, you can be my taste tester.”

“Uh sure, yeah. I could do that.”

I lead him to the kitchen and set him up with a stool. I pull the naked cupcakes from the fridge so they have time to warm up, don a hairnet—hygiene before vanity—wash my hands and slip out of my heels and into a pair of flats before I get the rest of the ingredients out.

“Do you need any help?”

“Nope. You’re good to just hang out and drink coffee. I’m sorry about the delivery. We had a busy day yesterday and I let Paul accept it. I didn’t even check what it was.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t tell you what was supposed to be delivered and I should’ve checked everything last night, but that drive was hell. There was an accident on the way back and it took seven hours instead of four, which is already long enough, you know? I just didn’t plan this as well as I should have. Rookie mistake, I guess.”

“You can always do a post-Thanksgiving dinner this weekend, can’t you? Maybe on Saturday you can do a Cornish game hen special?” I tie my apron and set up the industrial mixer so I can work on the buttercream.

“That’s what I’ll have to do. They’ve already been in the fridge overnight. I’m hoping by tomorrow afternoon they’ll be thawed and then the kitchen staff can prep and cook them.”

“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.”