4. This Delightful Flavor

4

THIS DELIGHTFUL FLAVOR

In the kitchen, Flora pointed to a barstool, and Beau placed me there gently. He mentioned jumping in the shower before dinner was ready, but I was too aware of his suddenly stilted tone and the way Flora's back stiffened at the sink. She didn't turn around, merely nodded as she rinsed vegetables for a salad. A fresh wave of guilt and confusion washed over me. But as soon as he left, she turned her head and sent a surreptitious smile my way.

And all I could think about was what she'd said to me by the couch—her dark eyes soft, her fingers in my hair. You were so gallant that day. I thought you were trying to seduce me .

Flora Stevens was the kind of person that inspired gallantry. From the first moment we'd met, I'd been seized with the urge to bring her flowers and keep her dry in the rain and make her laugh when she was sad. Watching her now—pink-cheeked and flour-dusted, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up to reveal her whisk tattoo—I was gripped by the same desire. Was seriously contemplating making a bouquet out of whatever odds and ends I could find in the house just to present it to her.

Snow fell in great heaps outside, yet the kitchen stayed warm, filled with the smells of freshly baking bread and a chicken roasting in the oven. Beneath Flora's music, I could hear the fire in the hearth, the slight howl of the wind. Mixing bowls and ingredients cluttered the counters, the sight of cheery cooking chaos as intimate to who Flora was as her fingerprint.

She owned a hip and cozy bakery in North Boulder, with lines that stretched down the block during the weekends. Beau and I had spent many a late night and early morning there with her, letting her test recipes on us.

Now she set the tomatoes on a plate to dry and scooped up a large silver mixing bowl. She twirled my way, stepping to stand between my legs.

"I cheated a little bit," she said, and my heart toppled over at her phrasing.

"You…what?" I asked.

She held up a spoon from the bowl, wearing that same covert smile. The one that said we share a secret . "I baked the gingerbread cake ahead of time, so all I had to do was whip up the cream cheese frosting. Wanna lick?"

As if I could deny Flora anything.

I wrapped my fingers around hers and brought the spoon to my mouth. Her eyes were bright as I tasted a dollop—butter and molasses and the rich tang of the cheese. She knew this was my favorite recipe of hers and would often sneak slices over to my apartment when I was stressed about a wedding or an event.

I hummed my delight. "Perfect, as always."

She licked frosting from the edge of her palm. "You think so?"

"Of course." I squeezed my thighs together, trapping her where she stood. It was purely instinctual, a yearning to keep her close, but the heat that flared in her eyes kept my knees tight against her hips. "And I'm practically an expert on your recipes at this point. I speak with authority on the matter."

Flora tipped her head, gaze falling to her toes, and I didn't miss the way the pink on her cheeks deepened. "Hearing that you like something I've made still gives me this…this little thrill. I don't know. Is that weird to say?"

"No, not at all," I said, relaxing into a smile. "Why do you think I agreed to plan your wedding? I'm so obviously seeking your compliments, even after all these years."

Her eyes rose back to mine, one hand landing on my knee. Right where Beau had gripped me. I briefly imagined two sets of hands on my body—wandering, stroking, squeezing—and sucked in a breath.

"You're very sweet," she murmured. Her hand came up to grasp my chin. "And you have frosting all over this gorgeous face."

"I like to think it enhances my natural beauty," I said.

Her thumb swiped along my lower lip. She brought it to her mouth and sucked. "You taste delicious, by the way."

"I can't take credit. That's your creation." Then I swiped another dollop of frosting onto my finger and aimed for her cheek. She was too fast, anticipating my move and catching my wrist. Flora brought my finger to her mouth instead, her tongue darting out and curling against my skin.

She sighed approvingly. "I disagree. This delightful flavor is all you , Paige Presley."

Whatever laughter had been gathering in my throat died immediately.

"Now who's doing the seducing?" My voice shook slightly.

A wicked grin flew across Flora's face. "What can I say? I'm just a humble, bisexual baker, vying for your affections."

"You've got them," I said, before I could stop myself.

The words seemed to still her, stripping the playfulness from her expression and replacing it with ardent longing. Her gaze raked the length of my body, so different from earlier when I'd been semi-naked with her kneeling in front of me. My brain kept circling around the feel of her tongue, how artfully she'd licked frosting from me. I wondered—with that same burst of guilt tangled with desire—if she would fall to her knees now. Shove my legs open wide and bury her pretty face between them.

Flora blinked and shook her head. She brushed a curl from my forehead and then spun back to the oven, oblivious to the disappointment roaring through me. She ladled something delicious-smelling into a mug and pressed it, steaming, into my hands. Then she grabbed a nearby whiskey bottle and tipped it at the rim, splashing some into the hot chocolate. From the smell alone, I could tell it was her own recipe, the one she sold at the bakery—cocoa with a spoonful of caramel and a pinch of cayenne pepper.

As soon as I sipped it, a languid pleasure unwound through my limbs—the bite of whiskey, the buttery caramel, the spicy heat on my tongue.

It was so good it almost made me forget my disappointment.

Almost.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Also perfect."

She hid a smile, turning back to the salad. "Can I ask you something about the wedding?"

"Sure you can," I said, surprised. "I know finding a venue's been tough, but we could start looking at what you want to wear. Oh also, before I forget, do you have a photographer in mind? They do get booked up fast, but I'm sure I could finagle someone last minute."

Her hand moved up and down as she sliced tomatoes and tossed them on top of a bed of lettuce. "No, not…I don't want to talk about all that. I wanted to ask, with the clients you've seen since you started, have any of them ever admitted having…regrets?"

Her back was facing me, head down while she chopped, but the slight cock of her ear told me how intensely she was listening for the answer. Though it was better she hadn't been looking my way. I could feel the shock etched into my face, my fingers trembling when I set down my mug.

"Regret it?" I asked. "Like…later realized they shouldn't have gotten married?"

"Yeah, that. I was curious, is all."

I swallowed hard around a lump in my throat. "Not really. Or at least, not that they've told me. I'm sure over the course of my career at least one of the couples will break up. Probably more. And I can guarantee many of them had regrets or fears before and after. Weddings are messy because humans are messy, and that includes all the complicated feelings that come along with it. But I only take clients like us. Queer and trans folks claiming joy as their birthright, declaring a love we've been told we don't deserve."

I hesitated. "It doesn't…doesn't mean all the planning and details and interpersonal stress doesn't take a toll. You and Beau aren't the first couple I've worked with to feel… stuck in the process, no matter how festive."

Flora nodded but didn't respond at first. I watched her prepare the salad and place the bowl in the center of the table. Next to it, the roasted chicken and a plate full of fluffy biscuits. When she turned and stepped back between my legs, her expression was difficult to read. Part flirtation, part apprehension. This time, both hands landed above my knees and slid slowly up, tightening mid-thigh. Arousal pulsed through me, warring with my confusion and worries.

"I have a regret," she said simply. "Do you remember that weekend we went dancing together?"

I lifted an eyebrow. "Which one? We're always dancing together."

"The night in the bathroom."

I knew which night she'd meant. Was only playing coy because I didn't want to reveal how often I thought about it, revisiting every moment the same way I did my memories with Beau. Examining every angle. Scrutinizing every touch, every smile. On the night in question, we'd gone somewhere dark and close. Intimate. We'd done shots but not too many, so I remembered every detail. Flora's hands on my hips as we moved together on the dance floor. Our fingers entwined as we sat at the bar. The two of us laughing in the bathroom as I reapplied my lipstick.

Flora had held me from behind as I layered on fresh color. She'd kissed my cheek—a friendly gesture. Affectionate. But then her lips had moved to the nape of my neck, hovering there like she was breathing me in. Then the side of my throat, each kiss sure and confident. Her eyes had met mine in the mirror—smudged eyeliner, glitter on her cheeks, hair wild around her beautiful face.

She'd splayed a hand across my stomach, already coasting lower.

Then lower still.

I'd watched, stunned and barely breathing, as her hand came within inches of cupping my pussy through my jeans. And who knew what might have happened next if a trio of sloppy drunk girls hadn't tumbled into the bathroom, shattering our moment like a sledgehammer.

Flora dipped her head close so her mouth was over my ear. My eyes fluttered closed. "You were stunning that night. Everyone in the club wanted you, and you were oblivious. And I had a chance to kiss you and didn't. But I dream about it all the time."

It was so similar to Beau's own charged confession that my head spun. I'd wanted them for so long that hearing their whispered honesty—that they'd yearned for me the way I had for them—felt like a thousand Christmas mornings rolled into one.

But I hadn't wanted it like this —in the middle of planning their wedding, amid what seemed like a relationship crisis, forcing me back to those unthinkable crossroads.

I didn't want only Beau or only Flora.

I wanted to keep them both—forever.