What to know what else is whipped? Me.

I laugh at the absurdity of carrying home cups of whipped cream in my purse for my dogs, and shuffle over to the counter. I hear the door jingle behind me as I order, then I move off to the side and wait. When I collect the two cups and make sure the lids are sealed tight, I spin around and collide into a hard body.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

That voice.

We both look up, making eye contact, and I freeze.

Then I drop one of the two puppuccinos, sending a spattering of whipped cream all over my boot. I feel like I should probably clean it up, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, and moving in general is definitely out of the realm of possibility.

Dean’s face is a mask of surprise, a little bit of wonder, and a hell of a lot of oh, shit. “You dropped something.”

I blink, registering his words very slowly. When they sink in, I can’t help but release a small smile that only brightens when his own smile begins to stretch. “Did I?” I squeak out, feeling a strange mix of disbelief, awe, confusion, and potent familiarity.

“According to my pant leg, you did.”

I glance down, my face flushing with embarrassment as I take in the whipped cream dappling the leg of his jeans. When I look back up, the humor has faded, and neither of us make any attempt to clean up the mess.

“You look amazing, Cora,” he breathes out, his eyes scanning over my healthy curves, shorter hair, and settling on the renewed sparkle in my eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you when I walked in.”

I duck my head, somewhat bashfully. “You’re just not used to seeing me in anything other than sweatpants,” I joke.

Dean is still studying me head to toe, but not in a sleazy way—it’s almost like he’s soaking me up. Reveling in all of my put-back-together pieces. “It’s not that.”

We both know it’s not that.

I swallow, trying to find the words I’ve so desperately wanted to say to him for eight long months, but now that he’s here, I feel tongue-tied. I nibble my lip, our eyes drawing back together. “You look good, too.”

Well, he does. He really does. He’s wearing a crisp, black button-down over a white band t-shirt with dark jeans. His hair is mussed and slightly overgrown, and a light stubble shadows his jaw. And I think his eyes are even bluer—is that possible?

I clear my throat when he doesn’t reply and attempt more words. “What are you doing back in town?”

Dean finally seems to be swept from whatever daydream he was lost in, and he scratches the back of his head, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I was visiting my mom. Also, my buddy, Reid… he had something he wanted to talk to me about, so I’m on my way over to meet him.”