I’m talking about the sweet, fuzzy fruit that represents my home state of Georgia—not the emoji that most people use for a different peach. If you know what I mean...
When there’s the chance to show off my peaches at a Christmas-themed island for the Peach on the Beach festival, it’s a no-brainer.
Then I arrive in Candy Cane Key.
Turns out, they aren’t celebrating my favorite fruit. Nope. This event is about that other type of peach.
To make matters worse, I can’t stop thinking about the event organizer, the local chocolatier—Tizzy. And that’s exactly what she’s worked my insides into.
The strawberry blonde wild child is my exact opposite in every way. Someone I know I should stay away from. Yet, I can’t.
There’s no harm in a little fling, right?
Son of a Peach is an opposites attract, insta-love, fun in the sun novella about an uptight horticulturist and a happy-go-lucky chocolatier with a guaranteed HEA.
Goodreads → https://bit.ly/3JNEOKt
Copyright 2023 Claire Hastings
Maybe this isn’t, but my dick…
“It’s not dirt,” I say, repeating the motions, “but I can see how this would be fun.”
“Dirt is not more fun than chocolate.”
I stop dead, chocolate fork held in midair, Oreo precariously perched on it. She cannot be serious. Then again, of course this free spirit of a woman would think that.
“Dirt is basis for all life. From dirt you came and to dirt you shall return,” I paraphrase. I can practically hear the preacher back home from Hickory Hills Baptist rolling his eyes for getting that piece of scripture wrong. The meaning is still there though.
“Maybe, but…chocolate gives life meaning,” she counters.
“Does it though?”
Dipping her finger into the bowl, she scoops out some of the melted goodness before running her finger along her lips, then sucks all the chocolate off. My dick surges and I swallow hard, wishing that were me she was licking.
Fuck, I need to get it together…
“It does. Besides, doing this with dirt is less fun.”
I don’t have time to ask, “doing what.” Tizzy’s too quick with the spatula, flicking it at me, sending chocolate flying. It’s warm as it hits my skin, catching me off guard. I scoff, unable to believe she just did that. Well, two can play this game.
Grabbing the fork, I mimic her movements, splattering chocolate across her face. Tizzy gasps, her smile wide. She clearly was not expecting me to retaliate. I laugh, enjoying her reaction and the playful fight that ensues. Back and forth we go, each one flinging bits of chocolate at each other. I can’t remember the last time I did anything like this. Certainly not with food. Mud, maybe. Mud fights were plentiful as children. Anton and I never passed up a chance to enjoy a good puddle. But it’s been years since we did that. Since I really let loose and played. And then I met Tizzy.
It’s time to up the ante though, the little splatter from the kitchen instruments no longer having the same effect. So I do what any man would do. I go big.
I dip my whole hand into the chocolate bowl, scooping up as much as I can. I hear Tizzy's breath hitch, like she knows what’s coming. She doesn’t move though, the impish look on her face turning even more devilish the closer I get to her. I’ve wanted to lick this chocolate off her since the moment she spread it on her lips. Time to create my chance.
Only, physics has a different idea.
Stepping forward to close the distance between us, I slip. My legs wobble underneath me and I lunge forward, trying to keep my balance, and fall into Tizzy. The momentum sends us backward into the counter, which thankfully stops us from hitting the ground.
A second later, both of us trying to catch our breath, I pull back slightly, noticing the placement of my chocolate-covered hand.
Smack-dab on Tizzy’s boob.
Claire Hastings is a walking, talking awkward moment. She loves Diet Coke, gummi bears, the beach, and books (obvs). When not reading she can usually be found hanging with friends at a soccer match or grabbing food (although she probably still has a book in her purse). She and her husband live in Atlanta.
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