Page 69 of Friends Don't Kiss

He smiles back. “I did too.” His gaze lingers on my lip, then he says, “you have sugar right there,” pointing at the corner of my mouth.

I wish he’d lick it off. Or at least wipe it with his own finger. He’s done way more than that to me, and not so long ago. Why is he so skittish all of a sudden? Is it something I did? Something I said? But it’s not like I can ask him, right?Hey, why aren’t you turning this into something more?That’d be… weird.

Instead, I wipe my own lips, then shamelessly admire how the hues of the fire dancing on his features soften the planes of his face. His hair is a mess, one I adore. He must have tried to fix it by running careless fingers through it, because it has this tamed wildness that is presently doing something very concerning to my middle. His stubble is at about 3.5 days, which means he might consider shaving it tomorrow. I don’t know if I will be mourning the bad boy look or craving the clean-shaven, polished version of him.

“So… what got you into being a pastry chef?” he asks, breaking my dreamy train of thought.

“I told you already,” I answer. I get this is date number one, and we’re supposed to get to know each other, but this is Colt. He knows me.

He shrugs. “You told Grace you sort of fell into it because you got night shifts at some hotels, and that allowed you to sleep in your car during the day. Which we both know led you to trouble,” he adds, with a half smile that makes me all giddy. The trouble he’s talking about is him finding me asleep and dragging me to Emerald Creek to start the rest of my life. “But at the incubator, you said you wanted to create sweetness in the world. That true?”

“Did I say that?” It sounds like something I would say.

“You didn’t really say it-say it.” He blushes slightly in the most adorable way. “I kind of… I… Is… is that why? I mean, Ithinkthat’s why you do it. I just kinda… it made sense to me, after you told me about your father. What he did to you, and what the rest of your family did to you. Must have been awful lonely and brutal out there.”

I shove a huge piece of churro in my mouth so I don’t have to answer.

“I mean, I knew you were brave from the moment I met you,” he says, his voice turning gravelly the way it does when he’s talking about something that means a lot to him. “But I guess… I guess until the other day, until you told me about your dad…” His words are a little strangled now, as if he’s taking my pain and making it his. “I kinda thought someone with your backbone… you know… would be… I don’t know a-a-a super cutthroat businesswoman, or a Special Ops—”

I giggle at that, because what he’s saying is too deep and heavy for me to process—on so many levels that I can’t even begin to imagine what comes next in the conversation. “Special Ops? Did you look at me?” I ask from the side of my mouth, then shove the last piece of churro in my mouth.

He smiles, his gaze doing an extra-sweet sweep of my body. “I’m sure they could use a super ninja to slide through enemy lines undetected. You could have done anything you set your mind to. Had enough pain in you to turn it into wanting to fight. Instead you’re just wanting to spread sweetness, and that’s the ultimate sign of strength right there.”

The last bit of churro stays stuck as my throat closes in on the emotion. I’ve never phrased it that way, but he’s spot on. Working on creations with foods that never disappoint, never leave a bitter taste, always look pretty, always bring a smile to everyone, has been my refuge since I left my family.

I’ve never realized it. But Colton did. Colton sees me. He gets me.

I’m beyond elated that I let him take the lead on our relationship. I’m too much of a mess, but he definitely knows what he’s doing.

Churro finally swallowed, I ask the mirror question, a pitiful attempt at returning the favor. “What made you want to become a mechanic?” Any good friend would know the answer. What does it say about me that I don’t?

He takes a deep breath. “You know, I just… just feel good in my garage. With my guys. I like to take things that aren’t working the way they’re supposed to, and fix ’em. My boss, Merritt—I told you about him, right—he used to say things like, ‘let’s go fix what we can in this world.’

“And he’d show me how to change a belt or weld something. And then when I was done he’d say, ‘You fixed something that didn’t work before, and that’s more than most people can say today.’”

Merritt ended up selling his business to Colt, and he’s now living his retirement in an RV, traveling the continent with his wife. “Sounds like he was a really good man.”

Colton takes a long gulp of his hot cocoa and nods.

“How does he like his new life?”

“Seems to love it. I think they spent the summer in Alaska, and last I heard they were going down the PCH—the Pacific Coast Highway.”

I down the last of my hot chocolate, feeling the warmth spread inside. Cruising down the Pacific sounds idyllic. Deep blue sea. Palm trees. Warmth.

It’s what a lot of Vermonters dream about this time of year. And yet, the melted snow in my back from my earlier fall, the darkness enshrouding us in a deepening cold, the flames of the bonfire reflecting in Colton’s irises, are memories I will hold dear for a long time.

There’s no place I’d rather be than at the bottom of Red Mountain right now. “I like it here,” I say.

“Good,” he answers, his mouth tilting up.

“Growing up here,” he continues after a prolonged silence, “it was the best. And not only this—having the mountains and rivers as a playground—but thepeople. When my folks were going through rough times, I’d go with Chris to the King’s farm on the weekends. And after school, I started apprenticing with Merritt and Orson. They didn’t just teach me how to fix cars.” He glances at me, seems to hesitate, then continues. “When my parents were considering separating, they made sure to show me that relationships required… mutual understanding and respect. They made sure I understood that with love, every couple could be saved—just like my parents eventually were.” He stays silent, and I’m too scared to say anything.

I know where he’s going with this. But I’m caught like a deer in the headlights, having spent so much time resisting what’s happening now.

His mouth twitches as he adds, “The point I’m trying to make, is that a good mechanic doesn’t throw away an engine just because it stopped firing up. Just like with people, it’s about understanding what went wrong and giving it the love it needs. Then it runs like new.”

My heart is beating hard in my ribcage. I should say something, but there’s so much I need to process that I don’t even know where to start. I know he’s right. I just need time to process what this means for me.

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