Page 55 of Torin

“You make crème brûlée?”

“Sometimes.”

I look at him, then at the tiny kitchen torch in his hand. “Of course you do.”

He grins and turns his attention back to the marshmallow. “Alexandria likes it.”

There’s something ridiculously sweet about that. I’m beginning to suspect Torin has accumulated half his domestic skills because somebody he cares about once mentioned liking something.

He skewers the marshmallow, then the torch hisses to life. I watch, fascinated, as Torin rotates the marshmallow carefully in the flame.

The surface darkens, bubbles. Turns golden brown.

Then, like he’s done it a hundred times before, he sandwiches it between two graham crackers, slips in a square of chocolate and hands it to me.

“There.”

I take a bite. Melted marshmallow squishes out the sides, chocolate smearing across my fingers. “Oh, that’s good.”

Torin is watching me.

I lick chocolate from my thumb, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

I take another bite, very aware of his attention.

Torin makes himself a s’more. I finish mine and reach for a napkin.

“You missed some.”

“Where?”

He touches the corner of his own mouth. I wipe at mine.

“Gone?”

“No.”

I try again.

Torin laughs quietly. “Other side.”

I roll my eyes. “Just tell me where.”

“Here.” He reaches toward me, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

My breath catches.

His hand stills, and for a moment, he just looks at me. Then his gaze drops to my lips.

My heart starts pounding, a wild rush of yearning sweeping through me.

I know what’s about to happen.

Torin leans in slowly.

I tip my face toward his, barely able to keep still as he gets closer.

God, I want this.