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I swept the last of my garlic bread on my plate and popped it into my mouth. As I chewed, I thought about her question and came up blank. “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
“It’s your birthday, silly,” she said, pushing her half-eaten plate aside. She’d eaten most of her salad, though. “You pick.”
I shook my head and slid my plate and bowl to the side of the table. Letting my elbows rest on the table, I picked up my wine and took a sip. “I like it better when you choose,” I told her the truth.
She rolled her eyes at me, then yelled for the cook. I squinted at her, curious at why she was calling him. Then she shifted her gaze back to me. “It’s your night, not mine.”
My eyes looked at her beautiful face, down passed her neck to that perfect cleavage. “If it’s my night, then I should get what I want—which is anything you pick for us to do.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes, but what do you want to do?” I asked, more curious than ever as to what was going to come out of her mouth.
“Honestly?” she asked, her voice so high it nearly squeaked.
“Honestly.”
She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, making her cleavage even bigger. “I’m wiped from going out this morning and then cooking all afternoon. I’d love to take a bath and read.”
The image of Cherry in a hot, bubble bath made my cock jump. I bet her skin got all wet and slippery in the soapy water.
Before I had a chance to answer, the door from the kitchen burst open. The cook was once again pushing the cart—but this time it had a cake with candles on it.
Cherry stood up and raced to my side as she and the cook sang “Happy Birthday” to me.
Good Lord. It had literally been decades since anyone had sung that to me.
They both sang terribly off key as they laughed their way through. I had to chuckle and pray it would end soon. When they were finally finished, Cherry clasped her hands together. “Blow them out! Hurry, before they melt onto the cake!”
I took in a deep breath and blew the candles out in one quick swoop.
“Yay!” they both said in unison as they clapped their hands enthusiastically. I shook my head at her and picked up the knife to cut the cake. “No! Stop!” she yelled, her hands covering her mouth.
“What?”
“Drop the knife, it’s bad luck to cut your own cake. Don’t you know anything?” she admonished me while divesting me of said knife. “Sheesh.” She and the cook shared a look. Then she ridded the cake of its candles and began cutting.
“I’m sorry I left you with such a mess in the kitchen,” she said, her voice apologetic. “I thought I’d have time to clean up everything, but the day got away from me.”
The cook frowned. “Not a problem at all. It took me a few tries to take apart the pasta press, but I eventually figured it out,” he said, his tone friendly. He clearly wasn’t upset at all that Cherry had left him with clean up duty.
“Ugh, I should have taken it apart before I ran upstairs,” she answered, handing me a plate as she spoke.
“You take it,” I said, offering it back to her.
Her nose bunched up in the cutest manner. “Is this your first birthday party? The birthday boy gets the first piece of cake,” she said, then gave me a fork. Then she held out a plate to the cook, which he refused.
“No, no, Madam, thank you,” he said, waving his hands in front of him. “The staff and I already ate the extra one you made. It was delicious, by the way. And the ravioli you made was superb.”
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
After she’d taken her cake and walked back to her chair, she turned around and said, “Oh, don’t forget the—you know.” Her eyebrows raised as she gave him a knowing glance.
The cook’s hands clapped together and he said, “Yes, yes.” He bent down low at the cart, clearly pulling something out of the lower shelf. When he stood, he had presents in his hands. “Mr. Rosetti,” he said, setting them down gently on the table beside me.
“Have a nice evening,” he said, bowing toward me. “And the happiest of birthdays, sir.”
He quickly cleared our plates before rushing back into the kitchen.
