Page 102 of Resisting the Grump

“It’s a citrus IPA.”

“Citrus, you say?” I hadn’t found an IPA I liked yet, but being with Oliver made me want to experience everything. My face scrunched as I swallowed.

“The grapefruit’s not coming through for you?”

“No,” I said, taking a sip of my white wine to wash the bitterness away. “The grapefruit did not come through.”

He stared into the fire for a minute, and I stayed silent, letting the soft crackling sound fill the space around us.

“I’m glad we got away,” he said finally. “You were even more fun in the hot tub than I anticipated.”

I thought back to how irresistible he looked relaxing in the glowing jacuzzi while endless bubbles bounced off his hard body.

It seemed the memory energized him, too, because he knelt down to mess with the fire and mumbled, “White bikinis should be illegal.”

I was pleased to know I wasn’t the only one who’d never look at that bikini the same way again. “Wait—did you just growl?”

He glanced up at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just excited for s’more.”

I laughed. “You nailed that.”

His eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

The promise of s’mores made my mouth water, and it occurred to me that we didn’t have anything like that on the bakery menu. “We should do a s’mores-inspired something at the café. I bet that would be a huge hit.”

He sat back in his chair. “Sounds like a great idea.”

I drummed my fingertips against my chin, contemplating whether a cookie or brownie would work better. After all, if I was going to make a suggestion that could trigger one of Grace’s infamous week-long bake-a-thon benders, the least I could do was have a clear vision. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to think about it since I wouldn’t dream of suggesting she develop a new dessert before the wedding. She and Kayleigh and I always gained weight during her extended tasting tournaments, and Grace already confided in me that she wanted to feel fit for the big day.

I shared her sentiment, but I doubted Oliver would even notice if I put on a pound or two. He seemed to think the more of me there was to appreciate, the better, which was sweet. He always touched my body like he was in awe of it, and it felt amazing to receive that kind of affection.

“Speaking of good ideas,” Oliver asked. “Any update on your tea service idea?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re going to trial it. Only downside is that I have to work Sunday afternoons until I can prove the concept.” I’d been putting off telling him since Sunday afternoons had become one of our favorite times to hang out.

Not that we got up to much. Simba’s enthusiasm for ribbon chasing plateaued years ago, apparently, and my ability to play the drums was still non-existent. That said, I could finally appreciate the appeal of banging on them from time to time. I was particularly fond of the cymbal, and Oliver had gone out of his way to teach me a few techniques that made me feel like I was playing, even though I sounded absolutely horrendous if he turned off the backing music.

“I really think you’re on to something with that,” he said, talking to the fire. “Might even consider creating a cookbook.”

“A cookbook? Tea service doesn’t really require much cooking.”

“That’s the beauty of it.”

I wasn’t convinced.

“It’s only a suggestion,” he said. “But it’s kind of an intriguing idea, if you think about it. It would basically be the opposite of my dad’s cookbook, which is for advanced home cooks who want to use complicated ingredients.”

“Maybe you have a point.”

“It could even be for kids,” he said, still thinking out loud. “I don’t know. I think there’s something there.”

“Well, I really appreciate you being supportive. I know it cuts into our time together.”

“I’m sure we can still find time to work on our crosswords.”

“Our crosswords?”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That was a code word.”

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