“What’s this about mocha icebox cake?” he asked.
“I’m not sure it’s an actual cake. It’s some mocha mascarpone cream thing sandwiched with chocolate chip cookies that you chill for a long-ass time then eat.”
Eric swiped my mug out of my hand and put it on the coffee table.
“Hey! I wasn’t done with that,” I snapped as he dragged me to the door. When we were out of it, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“To the grocery store.”
“He moved into the room, shrugging off his cut. He was tossing it to the end of the bed when he saw someone had put Carissa’s pie on the nightstand. Shoved the change, army knives, condom wrappers, and empty beer bottles out of the way and laid it there, fully intact, plastic wrap still on.
Like he couldn’t stop himself, he walked right to it, tore back the wrap and dug his fingers in at the side. A huge piece covering his curved fingers broke off in his hand.
He lifted it and shoved as much as he could get in his mouth.
And went still.
Every punch he’d landed. Every kick. Every time a man went down at his feet. Every time he’d sunk his cock into tight wet. The moment Kane Allen told him he was a Chaos recruit. The day they handed him his patch.
None of it tasted as good on his tongue as that pie.”
“All I gotta say to that is, life is shit, and it’s totally awesome, so if you can sort through your shit and think being with him through it is awesome, you best be pulling out the trifle bowl.”
This referred to making my famous chocolate pudding.
For Cap.
My trifle bowl saw a lot of action. Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas at Luna’s folks’ house. Every Oasis Square get-together. And nearly every girls’ night in at my place.
I once showed at our Oasis Square Independence Day Extravaganza without it, and I was shunned. Until I dashed out to Fry’s and did my best with the time I had (I liked my pud to cure overnight, it was still good, because what made it couldn’t be bad, but it wasn’t my best effort).
“You haven’t even seen my charcuterie board, babe. I got like, five kinds of cheeses and tons of different nuts and olives, and there’s some peppers, and I rolled up the meat myself. And I made cereal treats but with Fruity Pebbles and extra marshmallow, and they rock.”
That sounded amazing.
What was more amazing was the effort he put into it.
For me.
“Are you going to feed me with your fingers?” I asked.
He did a body shrug which was just a shrug, but since his body was flat out on mine, I felt it all along my length.
It felt nice.
“Sure.”
“Okay, you tussled in the snow with Midnight, let’s get you warmed up. You want some hot cider? Or cocoa? Or are you hungry? A little snack before dinner?”
“Do you have butterly pie?” Janie asked.
Cady stared down at her.
Shannon bumped Kath with her shoulder.
The dust was again rising.
“I…no, honey. I don’t have any of that,” Cady answered.
“You made us butterly pie and it was yummy. Mommy and I loved it. Mommy said to be sure to say thanks, so thanks!”
Brand and I were sitting at Creed’s island with Brand talking a mile a minute, while Kara and Creed were making what they told me was called a “pizzookie.” The pizzookie, as described, was a phenomenon whose existence I was shocked I’d not only never heard of before, but also had never partaken of, copiously. Apparently, you took store bought cookie dough, sprayed a cake tin, scrunched a bunch of dough in the bottom, baked it until it was just cooked but mostly gooey, plopped a shitload of ice cream on top and ate it out of the pan. If you were feeling saucy, Kara further explained, you could do this with brownie dough.