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“Where’s that?”
“Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
I gasped. “They make the best pastries in the world.”
“Like I said.” Harris finished piping the last Christmas tree on the board beside the house, then set the pipe aside. Without warning, he charged over and pulled me into a punishing kiss.
I matched his tenacity, our teeth bumping, our tongues warring, and sounds of passion erupting from each of us. “I’d let you fuck me right on this bench if it didn’t disturb your gingerbread house. Happy Christmas to us.”
“There’s an entire floor down here. Regrettably, I don’t have time, though.” Harris tried to pull away.
I held him fast. “You’ve been in here all day. You’re missing our first Christmas together. Come out and celebrate with the rest of us.”
I could tell he was torn. Knowing Harris, he wanted to deliver a top Christmas lunch but also didn’t want to disappoint me. So I changed tack. “Can I help with anything?”
Harris smiled, then. “Do you know how to make cheesy scalloped potatoes?”
It took me a moment to understand what that was. “You mean potato bake?”
Harris cocked his head to one side. “Is that what you Aussies call it?”
“Yep. I can whip one up easily using my mum’s recipe.”
“I think you’d better use my recipe.”
I scrutinized him. “Why?”
“Because it was created by the best chef in the U.K. and the United States.”
“Potato bake is potato bake.” I went to the refrigerator and fished out cheese, butter, milk, and bacon.
“But it isn’tmyscalloped potatoes.”
I found flour, leeks, and potatoes and began peeling and chopping.
Harris pouted. “I guess we’re doing this your way, huh?”
I nodded once. “You guessed right. I’m not much of a cook, as you know, but this I know by heart.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Harris’ shoulders slump. Then I saw him slowly curve his lips upward. “Tell me what to cut up, baby.”
“The bacon. Then grate the cheese, please.”
We chopped together in companionable silence, and of course, he was finished in the blink of a second. He moved behind me, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist. His hands wandered over the front of my body, and I giggled when his beard tickled my skin as his lips trailed along my neck and shoulder.
“You’re distracting me.”
He lifted his lips to my ear. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m trying to cherish the feel of you.”
“Can’t we do that when I’m not holding a dangerously sharp implement?”
He took hold of the knife with me, and we finished chopping the potatoes together. “I love cooking with you, Louisa.”
“Even if it’s my mother’s recipe and not your own?” I raised one eyebrow.
“I can deal with that.” Harris threw a chunk of butter into a frypan. “As long as you realize mine would’ve been moan-inducing.”
“Of course!”
