Page 80 of Perfectly Grumpy

Tate lets out a laugh, scoops me right off the floor, and spins me around. “Second place, Sunny!”

When he finally sets me back on my feet, he’s still wearing that ridiculous ruffled floral apron.

“Good news, Sheriff. You can take off the apron now.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. If you think I look so good in this, maybe I should keep it on.”

“In that case, I need another shot to remember it by.” I whip out my phone and take another picture before he can confiscate it.

His eyes narrow. “You’d better not put that on social media. No PR excuses.”

“Nope,” I say sweetly, slipping my phone behind my back. “This one’s just for me. To relive our baking glory in ruffled aprons.”

Tate lunges for my phone, but I dodge, laughing as I dart behind the counter.

“Sunny,” he warns. “Delete that now.”

“Sorry, Sheriff,” I tease. “Evidence of your domestic side stays with me. Along with one last picture of us together.”

I lean in, angling my phone for a selfie, but Tate stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Wait. You can’t take a picture like that.”

I frown. “Why not?”

He turns me toward him, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Because you have frosting…righthere.”

Before I can wipe it off, he reaches up and swipes his thumb over the side of my mouth, his touch purposefully slow.

I look away, thinking I should brush him off, make a joke. But all I can focus on is the warmth of his touch, the way his brow furrows slightly like he’s completely focused on the task.

Just when I think this torture is over, he casually licks the frosting from his thumb.

My heart vaults in my chest.

For a guy who’s all logic and brains, he can be irresistibly smooth when he wants to be.

I clear my throat, my body suddenly aware of his gaze on my lips. “Well, thanks for not letting me take a picture like that.”

His mouth slides into a knowing grin. “That’s what I’m here for.” And then those dimples make a showing, and I know I’m in trouble.

TWENTY-SIX

Tate

One minute, I’m participating in a baking contest, and the next, I’m wiping frosting off Lauren’s lips and barely resisting the urge to taste those pink lips myself.

Until my rational brain overruled my impulse, and I went with the safer option—my thumb.

But before I could figure out whether she felt the same electricity, she vanished into the crowd, and I got ambushed by a pack of the Williamsons, all of whom seemed very invested in our relationship after that moment.

“So, Sugar Bean, what are you planning to do when hockey is over?” Aunt Tammy asks, her long braid falling over one shoulder of her flowing blouse while she holds a mug of herbal tea. If I didn’t know, I’d guess she side-hustles at a farmers’ market selling homemade elderberry syrup.

“Well, hockey is over—the season ended a few weeks ago. That’s why I’m not at practice.”

Uncle Ray adjusts his belt buckle over his waist. “No, I think she meant when you retire for good. How long do hockey players actually last before their knees give out?”

Aunt Karen puts a hand on her husband’s arm. “Ray, he’s not as old as you. He’s got a few years left.”

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