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“One PB&J coming up,” I say, and as her lips slide against mine, it occurs to me that she might just be the final ingredient I’ve been looking for.
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
Grace
“What’s happening in here?”I step into the kitchen to find one of my favorite sights: Cam, apron on and elbow deep in a mound of dough.
“Just showing this cavatelli who’s the boss.” He works the pasta with his strong fingers, squeezing and rolling with such easy mastery that it leaves me flustered even after a year of watching him work up close.
“That’s definitely you.” I wander to the stove and lift the lid on the sauce he’s got simmering away. “Smells incredible.”
“Thanks.” He glances up at me, eyes dancing under those unruly curls as he flattens the dough with a smack. “Almost time to start shaping.”
“Hmm. Do I need a little shaping too?” When I flutter my lashes at him, he laughs and wipes his hands on his apron, then tucks a finger into the waistband of my jeans. Like always, I go where he puts me. Tonight he puts me up against the kitchen island, spinning me to smack my ass with the same authority he just showed the future cavatelli.
“Braids, Gracie?” His growl travels over my skin as he tugs on the one nearest him. “You know I can’t keep my hands off you when you’re in milkmaid braids.”
“You can’t?” I ask, all breathy innocence as his lips travel down the back of my neck. “Good thing we’ve got an hour before people start showing up.”
“A whole hour?” He nips my ear. “What should we do until then?”
A year ago, he might’ve stepped outside for a fake smoke break, but he’s kicked that habit entirely. Last New Year’s Eve, he kissed me at midnight like my mouth was an exciting new flavor for him to explore, and he’s never stopped. This year when he kisses me at the stroke of twelve, it’ll be the latest in an endless string of kisses, each as delicious as the ones we exchanged that first night.
I turn around, my hands finding his skin under his shirt and starting to travel upward, but he pulls away and slides his fingers through mine, his thumb landing on my ring and tracing the four letters that changed my life a year ago.
The reminder of how nervous I was to approach this funny, goofy, passionate man has me grinning up at him. And now, on New Year’s Day, we’re having friends over to my place—ourplace now—to celebrate our anniversary with pasta and wine and cheese.
I press my lips to his and murmur, “Best year of my life.”
“Best,” he agrees. “I love you so much, Gracie.”
My left hand falls to his hip, just below the spot where he inked my name on top of a line drawing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s ridiculous and perfect, and I couldn’t love it more, just like I couldn’t love him more.
“Right back atcha.” Then I throw him my best smolder. “Take me upstairs?”
“Gladly.” He whips off his apron and starts to herd me through the kitchen.“I should warn you about my New Year’s resolution though.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I glance over my shoulder to find his hungry gaze on me.
“You get two orgasms for every one of mine.” He quirks a brow. “Sound okay?”
I race up the stairs and fling myself onto the bed with an excited shout. “I think I can live with that for a year.”
“Only a year?” He joins me, and we start to wriggle out of our clothes.
“Okay, maybe two.”
He growls and nips at my ear. “More.”
“Three years?” I gasp as his hands find my breasts. “Five?”
“Fifty.” Off comes my bra. “Hell, make it ninety. Think you can live withthat?”
The answer tumbles from my lips just before his mouth closes over mine.
“Yes, Chef.”
