Page 34 of Too Delicious

He sniffs from the bottle while I scoop out the dessert.

“Huffing Jack now? It’s not a vintage pinot,” I joke, sinking a spoon into the frozen stuff.

“There’s quality in it just like you find with wine. Smell that?”

I pause my work and inhale as he waves the bottle under my nose.

“Toasty. And kind of caramel,” I say.

“You can taste the love,” he says.

“Maybe you can help me pick the right one for this recipe,” I say, reaching over to touch his hand that rests on the kitchen island.”

Heat arcs through me.

In the dark, I can feel him staring at me.

“Let’s try this and see how it goes,” he says.

“How much bourbon?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, let’s just do a little at a time until it tastes right.”

Even in the dark, I feel Cooper’s heated glance as he drizzles a few ounces over the crystallized, peachy surface, melding with the crumbly bits of cobbler and making a sort of runny caramel.

“Little by little is perfect for me,” he says.

My nipples tighten. Oh lord, he’s going to be the end of me.

Is now a good time to talk about what we did?

He grabs two spoons, hoists the bucket with the opposite hand, and we move into the living room.

We’re seated close together on the sofa surrounded by moving boxes with sports highlights muted on the TV. A camping lantern in the corner flickers.

There’s something strangely romantic about this moment. I’ve never felt at ease being alone with a guy in a romantic setting, not since my jerk fiancé wrecked my life.

We sit cross-legged on the sofa, facing each other.

“You first,” I say, patting his knee. “I need an objective opinion before I try it.”

He gives a raspy laugh that sends a tingle shooting through my core. “I could hardly be unbiased. It’s your recipe and I’m sure it’s great.”

Cooper MacKenzie really is one of a kind. Apart from my sister, he is my biggest cheerleader.

“You make a great hype man,” I say, watching him take a spoonful of the stuff we made together.

I wait for his assessment, but he’s silent for a long moment.

He takes another spoonful, his brows knit together in the shadowy room, as the light from the TV plays off the planes andridges of his strong jaw and cheekbones. Truly this man is too good-looking. It’s unfair.

“Well? How is it?”

His dark eyes assess me, and he fills the spoon again.

“Harmony, this is incredible,” he says, swallowing it down.

I exhale. “It is?”

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