Chapter 8

Eliza

Coleson’s eyes are all over me.

I don’t even think he is tasting the food he is eating as he devours me with his eyes. Which is a shame because, oh my God, he can cook. The potpie is so creamy, filling, and I can taste every spice he added. The crust is buttery and flaky, and though I want more, I know I need to chill since he made a cake too. Never in my life has someone cooked for me like this. While Louisa can cook, she never cooks for me, only her fiancé, and I get the leftovers. I don’t even know why I am thinking of them when I have Coleson in front of me.

Even in the low light, his bright-blue eyes are shining. His hair falls over his brow in a messy but sexy way. I want to move it out of his eyes, but I know if I do, I won’t stop touching him. His lips shine from where he has licked off the bits of potpie that were left behind. His jaw is clean-shaven, and even with the scents of coffee and potpie, I can still smell him. That rustic, woodsmoke smell. It’s intoxicating, just as he is.

Coleson has on a black button-down, but the top few buttons are open, and I can see the ink of a tattoo that graces his chest. The fabric is pulling taut across his shoulders, and his forearms are full of tattoos that are on display from where he has rolled up his sleeves. I know that his pants hug his thighs and ass like a second skin. I was thoroughly checking him out when I went to get the knife from the kitchen. He’s stunning and I want to believe that the attraction is mutual, but why did he wait a year to ask me out?

I’ve been asking myself that all afternoon while I prepared for tonight. I went through every scenario I could, but nothing made sense. I don’t know why now he is asking me out, but why am I questioning it? I’m here. He cooked for me. He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me. Why the hell does it matter what the reason is? But I am still wondering. Instead of asking, though, I say, “I grew up all over. We moved a lot.”

Around a bite, he asks, “Was that good or bad?”

“A little bit of both,” I admit. “But I had my sisters, so that’s good.”

“You have more than the one who runs the bookstore?”

I smile, and it blows my mind that no one ever connects Clara and Elliot to us. It’s always just Louisa and me, and I get that we favor each other, but the younger girls look like us too. “Yeah, three younger ones. One lives in Nashville, and the other two live here.”

“I didn’t realize there were so many of you,” he says with a teasing grin. “I’m an only child.”

“That’s lonely.”

He seems to agree with me, giving me a small nod. “It was, but there is a lot to do around here. I ran amok through the woods.”

I’m not surprised in the least. A lot of people around here are woodsy. Not me, though. My version of being outdoorsy is drinking a glass of wine on the porch with a good book. “I have to admit, I have never been in any woods around here. Not a fan of bears.”

He scoffs. “Getting chased by a bear is the best.”

My eyes widen. “You’ve been chased!”

He laughs. “No, but I’m sure it’s cool as hell.”

I laugh along with him, shaking my head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t disagree, finishing off his plate. “I’ll have to take you hiking.”

Hope blooms in my chest. That would be really nice, but the rational part of me reminds me not to get ahead of myself. “I don’t know if I’d enjoy it.”

His eyes burn into mine then, slowly and almost eagerly. “I’d make sure of it.” I swallow hard at his promise and look away to finish my own meal. “Would you like more?”

“Would you judge me if I said yes?” I ask, peeking up at him from beneath my lashes.

“I’d be offended if you said no.”

My face breaks into a grin. “Yes, please.”

As we dig in, I ask, “Do you still play for the Knoxville Bears?” I know he does, but he hasn’t brought it up yet.

“Yup. I had practice this morning.”

“How’s that going?”

He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Good. I didn’t think I would ever get a chance like this, so I’m truly blessed.”

“You didn’t play in college?”

“Not for UT or anything, but I played for the club team at the local rink. I grew up playing, but my parents weren’t supportive.”

“No? Why not?”

“Too consumed with each other, I guess,” he admits. “They had a pretty bad marriage, very selfish, and I wasn’t a priority.”

I wasn’t expecting that, especially since I grew up almost the same—just add a cult following to his story, and that’s mine. “I think my parents loved each other, but I wouldn’t know. My sister Louisa raised me, and when I got older, I helped raise the younger ones.”

We share a look of sympathy for our shitty childhoods. “It’s good you had your sisters.”

“It is,” I agree, though he has no earthly idea how true that statement is.

“Are your parents in your life?”

I shake my head. “My dad died when I was like eleven, and I don’t talk to my mother.”

“I don’t talk to my mom either. She lives out west somewhere. I don’t even know.”

“I don’t know where mine is either,” I admit with a small grimace. Not that I want to know where my mother is, but don’t we sound like two pitiful losers. “This is depressing,” I say with a forced laugh. “Tell me how you manage playing hockey and running this place, while also enjoying being chased by imaginary bears?”

He laughs at that, the sound so deep and throaty, I have to squeeze my thighs together to keep my pussy at bay. She’s a horny thing. “It’s a lot, but I manage. I have a good crew here.”

“That’s good. Louisa has been traveling to Nashville a lot for Ciaran, so I’ve been managing the bookshop more than I care to.”

“Do you not like the shop?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I love it, but it’s not mine. All my sisters have their thing, and I have nothing.”

He thinks for a moment, and then he nods. “You want your coffee spot to be your thing?”

“I do,” I say eagerly. “I love coffee, and it goes so great with books. It’s a no-brainer for me.”

He licks his lips. “People come here first before heading to y’all.”

The way he says y’all is all kinds of country sexy. It’s a twang I didn’t realize he had, but damn if I don’t like it. A lot. I swallow hard as he slides across the booth. Before he gets up, though, he grabs the bottle of wine. “Want a refill?”

“Yes, please.” He hesitates again, and then he shakes his head. I cock my head. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” he asks, meeting my gaze.

“You made a face and shook your head. You did it earlier too.”

His cheeks turn pink, and his jaw goes taut before he looks from where he is pouring my wine to me. “I like the way you say please.”

“Huh?” I say with a laugh.

“It’s all breathy and cute. I don’t know. I’ve never heard someone say it like that, and you do it all the time. It’s as if you are so worried I’ll say no.”

I am. “Oh.”

“Let me get the cake.”

Without thinking, I tease, “Yes, please.”

His shoulders flex as he lets out a long sigh and then heads back to the kitchen while I giggle to myself. I’m awful. I gather our plates and put them on the side of the table, out of the way, as he comes back with the cake. It’s small, like a personal-sized cake, with delectable-looking frosting. He sets it between us with two forks, and he hands me one. I take it eagerly, and my mouth waters at the sight. I should be full—and should be ashamed—but I’m not. I dig in and moan once the sweetness of sugar, cinnamon, and cream cheese hits my tongue.

“Lord, it’s better than the pie,” I groan raggedly. When I look over at him, his bite is inches from his lips and his eyes are locked on me. Heat flushes my skin under his heated gaze as I clear my throat. “It’s really good.”

“Thank you,” he says before stuffing his mouth with his bite. As he chews, I take another bite. I’m about to swallow when he asks, “How would you like to take over ownership of my coffee shop?”

And, of course, I promptly start choking.