“He never tried for more?” Ronan presses.

“Nope. Selling cupcakes out of a truck puts you in seriously close quarters with another person. He’s seen all my sides, the good, the bad and terrifying. Besides, getting in bed with a coworker or colleague is a recipe for disaster. Pun completely intended.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, can’t imagine it’s a great idea for a lot of reasons, although my gramps would likely disagree.”

“Those were different times, weren’t they?”

“Less complicated in a lot of ways, and yet more at the same time.” Ronan nods.

Twenty minutes later, I have batches of icing ready for decorating.

Ronan is practically drooling as he watches me put it in piping bags, so I get out a bunch of spoons and bowls and let him sample a bit of each as I decorate the cupcakes for dinner.

“I thought you weren’t opening up today.”

“I’m not.” I pipe chocolate mocha buttercream on the triple chocolate cupcake. “These are for my family dinner.” Although, half my family will probably make the sign of the cross at them. My mom and sisters are huge keto fans. The easy conversation shifts into that slightly awkward what-now limbo. “Do you usually spend Thanksgiving with your gramps?”

“Typically he was always here for Thanksgiving. Grams really loved the holiday and always wanted to make sure people who didn’t have family to celebrate with could go somewhere and have a nice dinner, which is why I ordered all the Cornish game hens. It’s been hard for Gramps to be here without her, though, so I told him I’d run things today. He went to my brother’s place. He’s staying there for a few days and won’t be back until Sunday sometime. You’re going to spend the day with your parents?”

“Yup. I haven’t seen them since I opened this place, so I’m due for a visit.” Before I can really consider what I’m saying I blurt, “You should come with me.”

Ronan’s eyebrows lift. “To your family Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. Yes.” I nod slightly more vigorously than necessary. “You can’t spend the holiday alone. My parents always make a huge production of it. You need to stuff yourself with turkey and beer. It’ll be fun!” I’m not sure that fun is really the best description for my family events, but it’s too late to take it back now.

“I don’t know. I should probably plan for the rest of the weekend,” Ronan says slowly.

“You already have a plan, a post-Thanksgiving dinner. Come with me. No one should be alone during the holidays.”

He grins. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“Can I sample the cupcakes before we go?”

“Of course.” The eye roll and the duh are implied in my tone.

“Okay. I’m in.”

“Fabulous!”

What the hell have I just gotten myself into?

chapter ten

Turkey Time

Ronan

I’m not sure how to read Blaire’s reaction to my saying yes.

If I’m completely honest, the cupcakes are the clincher. They’re dangerously addictive. Like nicotine, or heroin, or cocaine—none of which has ever been an addiction of mine. Hence the reason I hastily agreed to spend an entire day with Blaire and her family when I know very little about her.

If nothing else, this should prove to be an entertaining day. Blaire is…a lot of personality. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I’m still trying to figure her out and I guess now I’ll have the opportunity to do that.

I put a note on the front door of The Knight Cap apologizing for the closure today, and indicating we’ll be open again tomorrow, which is when I notice a sign on the empty building across the street. “Is that new?” I ask Blaire. She’s busy inspecting all the framed photos of my grandparents that line the wall opposite the booths. I’m sure they have new meaning for her now that she knows the story behind them.

“Hmm?” She drags her gaze away from a black-and-white photo of Gramps and Grams when they were young—younger than I am now.

I point across the street. “Looks like someone finally leased that place. I wonder what’s opening there.”

She crosses over to where I’m standing. “It’s a big building. Wasn’t it a law office before or something?”

“I think so, yeah?” It’s changed hands a number of times over the years.

“So it’s probably something similar, which will be good for both of us.” She tips her chin up and looks at me. “More business professionals to cater to.”

“Let’s hope that’s what it is, then.” More patrons means The Knight Cap has even greater potential to do well.

“Should I follow you back to your place so you can change, and then we can head to my parents’ place?”

I look down at my old white T-shirt and my sweats. “Probably a good idea. Not sure sweats are appropriate for much other than the gym and lazy days at home.”

Blaire takes down my address so she can follow me to my place. It’s not far from the pub. Making her wait in the car is rude, so I invite her up to my apartment.

It feels weird to have her in my personal space. Although, honestly, the only thing I do here lately is sleep.

“Wow. I don’t think it gets more man cave than this,” Blaire says as she takes in my loft apartment. It’s not huge, but it’s comfortable.

“It’s just me.” I’m not sure if I should be defensive about her assessment or not.

“I can see that.” She runs her fingertips along the edge of the distressed wood table I rarely use. I’m not here enough to entertain, and eating dinner alone at a table meant for six is kind of depressing. Mostly I eat at the bar, or on rare occasions when I’m not in a rush, in front of the TV.

“Let me guess: Your place looks like a unicorn vomited a rainbow of happiness all over it?” Mostly I’m poking fun at her.

She laughs. “You would be guessing wrong.”

“So you don’t have eleven million throw cushions with inspirational phrases on them?” I toe off my shoes and toss them by the door.

“Ahh, just ten million or so, and only a few have cute unicorns farting inspirational phrases.” The way she rolls her shoulder back and her narrow-eyed glare tells me everything I need to know.

I’ve totally hit a nerve. I don’t know why I enjoy needling her as much as I do. Maybe because she’s so prone to reacting. “I bet your place is decorated for the holiday. All sorts of cute pumpkin stuff everywhere, a papier-mâché turkey centerpiece that you made at some workshop on your dining room table.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I don’t have a dining room table.”

“But you have a papier-mâché turkey?”

“I had several construction paper ones when I was a child. I probably would have kept them for all eternity if my parents hadn’t thrown out my box of homemade crafts when I was a teenager in the name of decluttering.”

I file that little piece of information away, feeling like she’s told me a secret she didn’t intend to. “Pumpkin, then?” I press.