He runs a hand through his hair, making more of it stand on end. “I would’ve moved you to the spare bedroom, but you were out like a light and I figured you probably needed the rest. I hope you slept okay.”

“Like the dead, actually. I should go, though.” God, this is awkward.

Ronan gives me a lopsided grin. “You don’t want to stay and make me breakfast?”

It’s my turn for my eyebrows to climb my forehead. “I need to shower and change before work.” Plus Daphne said she was going to stop by this morning with a few things she thought might be helpful for the New Year’s celebration and she seemed particularly excited. No matter how many times I tell her I can manage, she always makes herself available on the nights with special events.

“It’s only just seven, and I’m kidding about you making me breakfast, Blaire. But I could make you breakfast.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

“If that was true, I would’ve stayed in bed and let you leave. You can let Callie open up, can’t you? I won’t make you late. I can whip up a mean breakfast sandwich.” His tone is light and playful, but his expression is earnest.

Warmth courses through my veins and pools in my stomach. “I guess I could stay for breakfast. I need to call Callie, though.”

“Great. I’ll put on a pot of coffee while you do that.” His warm fingertips graze the back of my hand as he passes. I don’t think it’s an accident.

After I call Callie, who’s happy to open up for me, I message Daphne about coming in a little late this morning.

Her response is immediate:

Daphne: Are you sick?

Blaire: No. Late night planning with Ronan. I’ll explain when I see you.

Daphne: Please tell me he has a big and you rode it all night long.

I ignore her text.

Blaire: See you in a couple hours.

“Everything okay? You still good to stay for breakfast?” Ronan asks.

“Yup. All set. What can I do to help?”

He hands me a mug. “You can get this ready to be filled with coffee. I’m going to throw on a shirt, and then I’ll start breakfast.”

“Okay.” I can’t remember the last time a guy made me breakfast. Especially not after an accidental sleepover, which did not include sex. I think I kind of like it.

He pads across the living room and I get a look at his back, also covered in art. He’s a living, breathing canvas. One I’d love to explore every inch of. And not just with my eyes.

chapter fifteen

Miss Mistletoe

Blaire

Look at the traction this post is getting!” Daphne shoves her phone in my face and waves it around, making it impossible to focus on the image.

I grab it from her, so I can see what she’s so excited about. I frown, not because it’s a bad image, but because I have no idea who took it or why it has so many comments or likes. It’s a picture of Ronan and me, his arm slung over my shoulder and mine wrapped around his waist. We’re smiling at each other, and while it’s on his feed, it was taken in my shop. Based on what’s happening in the background and my outfit, it was taken a couple of days ago when we had a post-Christmas, pre–New Year’s collaborative event—which is what most of our events are at this point.

And it’s turned out to be incredibly positive in terms of the Best Bar competition. We both made it through to the quarterfinals, although The Knight Cap managed to secure spot number twelve, while B&B ranked as number fifteen. I think it has a lot to do with our duets during karaoke nights, not that I’ll say it out loud.

I read the caption. I’m aware that Ronan leaves that stuff to Lars and one of his servers, who sometimes pass things by me or Daphne, so they can manage what to post and when. This is clearly not a pre-approved post, but people seem to love it. Because they’ve dubbed us The Knight Cakes and have given us a hashtag.

“Who approved this hashtag? It’s terrible.”

“Really? I think it’s cute.” Daphne gives me her innocent look, which isn’t innocent at all.

“Blonan is not a cute hashtag. It’s too close to blowjob. Was this your idea? Who took this picture?”

“I had nothing to do with the hashtag. Your followers came up with it, and they’re loving it. Everyone ships you two.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re not dating, we’re collaborating.”

“Yet. You’re not dating yet.”

We’ve had this conversation several times over the past three weeks—ever since the night I fell asleep on Ronan’s couch. “Am I attracted to him? Yes. Is it a good idea to get involved with him? No.”

“Says who?”

“Says anyone who knows what it’s like to date someone you’re working with. It’s a recipe for disaster. See Raphael for details.” She can’t argue with that logic, considering the way that entire situation blew up in my face.

Although, if that hadn’t happened I might not be here, working for myself. I may barely be making ends meet, and I may also be very much in need of a month-long nap, but at least I’m doing what I love.

“Raphael was a douche canoe, and it’s not the same situation at all. You were not his equal, you were his student and he took advantage of a position of power. And then he seriously screwed you over because he likes to stick his dick in everything that moves. Including Baked Alaska.”

I shudder at that image. “It’s still not advisable. We’re competing against each other for Best Bar and we’re working together to keep our businesses afloat so those fuckers don’t push us out.” I motion across the street to the yet-to-open massive adult indoor arcade and bar.

Their grand opening is New Year’s Eve, of course. Which is why Ronan and I have been spending an inordinate amount of time together planning our own New Year’s bash.

We’ve gone over all the fine details relentlessly. I have not, however, been back to his place since the night I fell asleep on his couch. Has there been a suggestion that we might want to work at his place? Maybe, but since B&B closes earlier than The Knight Cap, it makes sense for us to plan at my shop. At least that’s been my rationale, and he hasn’t really pushed it.