Page 129 of With a Cherry On Top

“You havegingerred hair. Hers is auburn. And her eyes are light green, but yours are...” I study them carefully, unable to give that color a name. “Muted green. Deep green. Like staring into a clear mountain lake at dusk.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I tuck some wet hair behind her ear, the water hitting our shoulders. “And you have a little skip in your step. Like you own the space around you without even trying.”

Her eyes soften.

“And when you talk,” I continue, “there’s always an edge, a purpose. You don’t just fill silence for the sake of it—you speak because you have something worth saying.” I only pause to breathe. “You throw your head back when you laugh and let it take over. You scribble in the margins of your sketchbook, like your brain moves faster than your hand. You tap your fingers on your thigh when you’re drawing.” I brush my thumb over her lip. “You hum under your breath when you’re comfortable—when you’re focused, or happy, or tired, like your body can’t help but create sound.”

For a long moment, she just stares at me. Like she’s processing, maybe trying to find the right response. Did I freakher out? How many times can this woman remind me about having a poker face before I start listening?

“And besides, Josie avoids conflict at all costs, and you’re the most confrontational person I’ve ever met.” I grin, trying to break the tension. “You keep me on my toes.”

Her grin is subdued now. “So I’m a challenge? Like a fun puzzle?”

“No, it’s not that.” I press my forehead against hers. Why do even her insecurities make me like her more? “It’s that when you choose me, it’s real. When you say yes, it’s because youwantto.” Charlotte wouldn’t marry me because her family told her to. She wouldn’t agree to be mine if she wasn’t sure of it. She wouldn’t accept my love without giving it back. “You want me in spite of the difficulties, not because it’s the easy thing to do.” I swallow. “So no, I don’t think you two are similar at all.”

She looks like she’s not sure if she wants to tease me or kiss me senseless, so I make the choice for her.

Sliding my hand to the back of her neck, I tug her just enough for her to understand what I want. And when she doesn’t resist, when she leans in, I close the space between us.

My lips brush against hers, tender at first, like I’m waiting for her to stop me. But she doesn’t, her arm curling around my neck, pulling me closer.

And just like that, I’m drowning.

Kissing Charlotte isn’t like kissing anyone else. It’s not just heat or softness or the rush of something new. It’s the sharp inhale before a storm. It’s the pulse-pounding moment before you jump off a cliff, knowing you’ll never be the same once you hit the water.

When we finally part, I rest my forehead against hers. “Still think I have a type?”

“Yeah.” She laughs, breathless. “Me.” She stares at me for a long moment, then, instead of speaking, she lifts our joinedhands and presses my palm flat against her chest. “You feel that?”

I nod, barely breathing, her heart pounding hard against my fingers.

“That’s what you do to me, Chef.”

CHAPTER 25

A Pinch of Magic

Most of tomorrow’s refreshments for Mother’s Day are ready, the smell of food wafting through the house as I throw another look at Sadie, sitting next to me on the couch. “How about some ice cream?”

“I ate pizza at Grandma’s,” she says in a small voice.

“That’s okay. You can have ice cream too.”

She nods but avoids my gaze completely, instead stroking Mollie like it’s her job.

She’s been like this since I picked her up, and Josie’s mom said she barely spoke a word the whole afternoon, which must mean something happened at school. But what?

I can almost hear Josie’s voice telling me to give Sadie time, that I can’t press her into speaking to me. That it’s never too early to give her space to process her emotions. I always thought it was a load of bullshit—always had more of a protective “let me fix it for you” attitude. But since Josie’s been gone, I’ve had time to rethink everything.

“Do you want to watch cartoons? Or talk?”

“There’sBlueyon Monday night,” she says, already reaching for the remote.

The TV flickers to life, filling the room with cheerful noise that feels at odds with the tension in her small shoulders. I bite back the questions crowding my throat and bend to pick up her backpack, abandoned in the corner.

But before I can move toward the hooks by the door, the Paw Patrol bag is yanked from my hands.