Page 32 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

KAYLA

“ Y ou can’t wear that,” I say, not even looking up from the mirror.

I’m on my second coat of mascara, perched on the edge of the sink with my legs crisscrossed like a pretzel, hair clipped back, our bathroom door open. It’s not the biggest bathroom in the world, but the light is good, and the routine is better.

Sean strolls past the door in a white tank top I’ve never seen before, emblazoned with an airbrushed wolf howling at the moon.

It’s tight enough to show each and every one of his abs.

“Too much?”

“Way too much!” I laugh and look at him in the mirror, putting the mascara wand back in the tube. “We’re going to a church potluck. No way the ladies of Mullet Ridge will be able to focus on the Good Lord while looking at all those muscles.”

“These muscles?” He kisses his biceps, and I laugh.

I push his abs. “Stop! They’re obscene.”

He wraps his arms around me from behind, and we both look at each other in the mirror. His arms really are ridiculous.

“So you don’t think me wearing a tank top says ‘I’m approachable?’”

“No, it says ‘I lost a bet to Lucas Fischer.’”

“That obvious?” Then he kisses my head and lets go. “I’ll change. But only if you promise to wear something that shows off those legs.”

I bite my lip as he leaves the bathroom.

It’s been four weeks.

Four weeks of getting up at six in the morning for a run. Or of me going with him to the Mullet Ridge Ice Barn while he runs drills with the Blue Collars and I jog the arena stairs before collapsing with a book.

Four weeks of him coming to the stadium with me and picking out flooring samples and light fixtures for the renovations, pretending to care about sconces and stealing me away for lunch, instead.

Four weeks of cooking meals together and eating meals together.

Four weeks of me realizing it’s okay to take a bite that isn’t perfect, that it’s okay to spill. That talking with food in your mouth may not be polite in public but is more than okay with the people who matter most.

Four of the happiest weeks of my life.

Today marks our second church potluck as a married couple.

Sean is back on deviled eggs duty, per Loretta’s instructions.

The ones he brought to the last potluck were nothing special: Duke’s mayo, mustard, paprika (not even smoked paprika).

And he used dill pickle relish instead of sweet relish, and no one batted an eye.

The whole thing could have been bought at the Piggly Wiggly, yet everyone gushed about how Sean’s the only one who knows how to make them right. Well, Sean and Serena.

“Miss Serena doesn’t mind sharing the spotlight,” Miss Loretta told us when she was giving out assignments.

“And what about me?” I asked. “I may not pipe hearts onto my food, but I can cook, you know.

Her smile made it very clear she did not know.

“We’ll give you some time to settle into being married,” Miss Loretta said.

“I’m settled. I’d like to contribute.”

“Fine.”

“And not drinks. Or dessert,” I said. “I’ll even follow a recipe. Just tell me what to bring.”

She and Miss Eunice traded looks, and then they smiled.

“In that case, you can make my famous sweet potato casserole,” Miss Eunice said.

“It’s the kind with a pecan crumble on top, not … gourmet, hand-crafted marshmallows from Peru, or some such nonsense,” Miss Loretta said.

“No problem,” I said. “Just send me the recipe.”

“I will,” Miss Eunice said.

“It’s not an assignment,” Fletch told me when he heard. “It’s a test. Don’t fail or you’ll be on napkin duty for the next three years.”

“Fletch, aren’t you on napkin duty?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Difference is I asked for it. I don’t cook and I won’t cook.”

“Then why do you make it sound like a punishment?”

“Because to you, it would be. You care about community and fitting in.”

“You have a point.”

And he did have a point.

And today, I’m making one of my own.

I can follow a recipe, and I can fit into this town, thank you very much.

In the mirror, I check my reflection. I add a little light concealer and some lip gloss, and then smile, a feeling of total contentment overtaking me.

Then the timer in the kitchen goes off, and I drop everything and run, shoving past Sean in the hallway as he pulls on a button-down that can barely contain his shoulders but is otherwise church-appropriate.

My casserole is bubbling when I open the oven to check on it, but it’s not quite the right shade of golden yet. It needs maybe two more minutes. I’m about to set the timer when?—

Sean comes right up behind me. “Mm, smells incredible.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He bends down and buries his nose in the crown of my curls, murmuring against my temple, “Absolutely incredible.”

His hands find my hips, and he spins me around. A thrill zips through me—straight from my toes to the top of my head. I loop my arms around his neck, tugging gently on his hair, giving him a smile that’s probably hungrier than it should be.

We’re not saying I love you yet, but we’re done pretending we don’t want to kiss each other’s faces off at every possible opportunity.

We’re dating.

Roommates.

Dating roommates.

Who happen to be married.

“No making out,” I warn, even as his lips hover over mine. “I have …” His nearness short-circuits my brain. “Minutes. Two minutes. I can’t miss it.”

“It’s going to be perfect,” he says, flapping his bottom lip lazily against mine.

My knees buckle, and he catches me with a smug grin.

“Don’t jinx me,” I whisper. “I don’t want to be on napkin duty.”

He tugs my lip between his and traps it with his teeth.

Holy.

Hannah.

“Napkin duty is underrated,” he says into my mouth.

I give in. I kiss him like he’s the only oxygen in the room.

Because I can’t get enough of him. I never can. No amount of kissing or couch cuddling or game nights or slow dinners can fix it.

I’m an old phone with a battery that can’t hold a charge, and he’s the outlet that keeps me going.

“Mm,” he says between kisses, “you even taste good.”

“So do you,” I murmur. “But you’re starting to taste a little crispy. Almost …”

I gasp, shoving him back. “BURNT!”

I throw open the oven, grab a mitt, and yank out the bubbling tray of sweet potato casserole.

Blackened.

“You did this!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You did! You sabotaged me because you love being the potluck golden boy! I should have made the deviled eggs and you should’ve been stuck with casserole duty!

” I swat his shoulder with the oven mitt.

“But noooo, you had to be gorgeous and perfect and everyone’s favorite person who can do no wrong. ”

He catches my hands in his. “I think you’re gorgeous and perfect and my favorite person who can do no wrong. Does that count?”

“It counts for nothing.” I pinch his cheeks, scowling. “If you weren’t so delicious, this never would’ve happened.”

“I can’t even apologize for that.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I yank his face down and kiss him. Hard.

Then I break away, point at the door, and say, “Grab your keys. We’re going to the Piggly Wiggly.”

Miss Eunice eyes the casserole like she’s waiting for it to confess. “Hmm.”

Miss Loretta takes the smallest possible serving. A “polite bite,” if you will.

“Hmm,” Miss Loretta says, echoing her friend. She chews. She swallows. Then she nods and takes an actual serving. “Mmm. Eunice, I’ll give the girl this: she can follow a recipe.”

I can’t tell if I should be offended or honored by her tone.

But it’s enough to give the entire town permission to heap store-bought sweet potato casserole onto their plates.

I watch with a mix of shock and … okay, just shock.

Sean squeezes my shoulders behind me. “Miss Eunice, you should know Kayla practiced this recipe multiple times before discovering the … missing step.”

I stiffen.

Traitor.

Miss Eunice smiles tightly, standing a few feet back from the table with us. When enough people have passed by, she leans toward me, standing on her tiptoes. I bend down.

“We both know exactly where this recipe came from, don’t we?” she asks quietly.

“We do,” I tell her, holding my breath like we’re defusing a bomb. Topped with pecan streusel.

“And we won’t say a word, will we?”

“No, we won’t,” I confirm.

Miss Eunice holds my eye, like she can’t decide if she has a threat in her, or not. “Good. Well done, Mrs. O’Shannan. Look forward to tasting this again next time.”

Miss Eunice nods curtly before taking a plate and getting a scoop of sweet potato casserole, and Sean laughs in my ear.

I elbow him. “That was a close one,” I mutter.

“I never doubted you for a minute, Mrs. O’Shannan.”

“Thanks, Mr. Carville.”

When we have our plates, we join Fletcher, who’s on his phone.

And … is that a smile?

No, not quite. It’s the ghost of a smirk, but softened at the edges. “Who are you texting?”

He flips his phone face down, ears tinged pink. “One of the guys.”

Sean snorts. “Sure. Because the GM puts that look on your face.”

“It’s not like that.”

“So it is someone,” I say.

Fletch takes off his hat, scratches the back of his head, and jams it back on. “She’s no one. I don’t even know her name.”

“Blind date?” Sean asks.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” He shifts in his seat. “It’s a forum. We argue. Podcasts, sentencing, justice stuff.”

Sean grins. “Ah yes. The language of love.”

Fletch grunts. “Shut up.”

I study him. His expression has turned unreadable — brows flat, jaw tight. But there’s still something in the way he’s holding himself. Like part of him doesn’t hate talking about her.

“I’m trying to picture you on a message board,” I say. “I bet you’re secretly delightful.”

He huffs a short laugh. “More like openly combative.”

“You were smiling.”

“No, I was smirking. There’s a difference.”

“But you like arguing with her.”

“Not as much as I like not talking about this,” he says, and I bite back a laugh.

Fletch is done .

Scottie joins us, giving Fletch the break he clearly wants.

“Your sweet potato casserole has made exactly zero people angry,” she says. “How does it feel to be upgraded to ‘not a failure?’”