“I agree,” he says. “My sister had a rough time around that age. She was so much smaller than the other girls that they treated her like an annoying infant. Wouldn’t let her join in all the pre-teen girl reindeer games, tortured her with awful nicknames, put dirty nappies in her purse, etcetera.”
I wince. “I’m sorry. That’s awful. My brother was one of the first people in his class to come out in high school. Some of the tough guys made his life a living hell.”
West’s brow furrows as he nods. “My oldest brother, Pierce, is gay. Got into a few fights at uni, when the footballers didn’t care to see him and his boyfriend holding hands.”
“Yeah. Harrison used to get jumped too.” I’m glad my brother’s grown up and no one puts hate notes in his locker anymore—and silently intrigued that West does have a brother who might like a handsome book editor. “But he turned out all the more fabulous for the hard times. He’s both one of the strongest and kindest people I know.”
“Same with Pierce, though he’s a heartless investment banker from nine to five. But Abby…she’s all sweetness.” He pulls in a breath, seeming to brace himself as he adds, “The kind of sweet that believes in her brother enough to enter him into a prestigious dessert competition without his knowledge.”
I arch a dubious brow. “Is that so?”
“It is. If I’d told you sooner that I was opening up across the street it would probably be easier to believe, but…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, wishing we’d taken this outside for privacy. I don’t have to turn around to know my staff is hanging on every word. With only a few customers in the shop, my crew would normally be chatting and swapping fashion tips while they tidy up. Instead, the counter area is dead silent.
I lift a hand before West can reply. “Actually, let’s take this to the sidewalk, shall we?”
“So you can rough me up if you don’t like my answer?”
“Yes.” I hate the flirty note in my voice, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m so irritated with this man, but still his sparkly eyes and easy way with words captivate me.
And his forearms are really pretty in that cranberry button-up with the sleeves rolled back. Yum, yum, yum.
Discreetly wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth, I flutter my fingers at my counter staff, fighting a smile at their faces, looking so indignant that I’m depriving the three of them of juicy gossip.
Just as well. They’ll only be disappointed when they realize my handsome new beau is the enemy in disguise.
At least, I’m pretty sure he’s still on my shit list. But that gift was quite nice, tea aside. Plus, there’s how he went to the trouble of spelling out So sorry.
I should let him explain himself. If there’s a fairy godmother raining down Hot British Men on sex-starved American women, I don’t want to miss out. I’ll take her blessing in the form of a kiss to discover how his clean-shaven jaw feels against my face.
Just for research, and all.
“So? Talk,” I order, as we wander down the sidewalk toward my place. “Why were you so shady the other night?”
“I didn’t mean to be shady. When we arrived at yours, I was focused on more interesting things than talking about my shop. Once you told me you own Sweetie Pies, I would have come clean, but I became distracted again. But I would have told you. I promise.”
I narrow my eyes. “Huh.”
He raises his right hand. “I swear on my sister’s life. I went to fetch some tea to have with our pie, planning to tell you as soon as we sat down for breakfast.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like tea though I appreciate your gift.”
His brows shoot up. “What? You don’t like tea?”
“I don’t like it. Sorry. It’s just not to my taste.”
“But you’ll guzzle rancid motor oil all night?” he asks, amused but judgy. “Without even any cream or sugar in it to soften the blow?”
“I love coffee. Don’t talk about it that way, you’ll hurt its feelings.”
He snorts. “It’s too bitter to have feelings.”
“At least it doesn’t taste like wet crabgrass.”
“Wet crabgrass?”
“Yes, and not even wet from the rain. Wet because a dog peed on it. A poorly hydrated dog who needs to go to the vet to get checked out because it might have a bladder infection.”
His newly beard-free cheeks stretch into a grin, revealing a dimple on his right side.
A dimple! God, I love dimples. I want to press my finger into it to mark the spot and then kiss it.
“Darling, I think you might be drinking the wrong tea. Or eating the wrong chocolate. Have you ever had an Earl Grey chocolate bar?”