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Her breath hitches, and I can’t help noticing the labored rise and fall of her chest.
“Whatever you say, Chef Crabby Cakes.”
I fix my gaze on her devilish smirk. “What did you just call me?”
“Guhhh. Chef… Crabby Cakes,” she says proudly. Her cheeks flush pink and her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Crabby Cakes? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My lips are sealed. I am a fortress of knowledge. You’d love me to reveal my ways to you, but I’ll never tell.”
“Hmmm,” I groan. “Unfortunately for you, I have a talent for getting you to reveal your ways to me.”
“Doubtful.”
“You see, I know your weakness. Those lips? They won’t stay sealed for long.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip. I know she’s just aching to kiss me.
“I happen to have some information that would be of interest to you,” I rumble.
She shoots me a witchy grin. “I’m a very simple person, Chef. I don’t bribe easily.”
“Ah, well that’s too bad,” I say, nudging her nose ever so slightly with mine. She shudders under my touch. “Whatever will I do with all these beignets I bought while you ladies were in the shoe store?”
“Bei… beignets?”
Her delicate lips part, jaw hinged open in the most delectable way—and I take her mouth, invading that fortress she was so smug about. My lips glide over hers and she makes the littlest sound in her throat, like a tiny grunt of pleasure.
I move to her jaw next, rumbling into the line separating her face and neck, breathing on the shell of her ear. “Why do you call me Chef Crab Cake?”
“That’s Crabby Cakes.”
“Why?”
She takes a fistful of my shirt. “Because you’re soooo crabby.”
“Am I now?”
“Yes.”
“And the bit about the cakes? What’s up with that?”
“I just like cake a lot. Especially dulce de leche.”
That was the flavor of the wedding cake. Of course she’d say that. Images of her licking the frosting off her finger flood my memory.
I take one possessive nibble of her lip and back away, leaving her flushed.
“See? I have my ways. I could get a lot more out of you, but children are present, so…”
“Ugh. Did you just play me?”
“No, not at all. If I had played you, you’d be wearing that dress by now.”
Her eyes narrow. “Hmm. Well I think tomorrow, it will be the snowman leggings. And gingerbread men the next time after that. And you will give me that beignet.”
There’s no doubt I will. I find myself wanting to give her all sorts of things I wouldn’t normally buy—whether it’s new clothes I’ll never get to see or powdered sugar-covered pastries. Just seeing her face light up is worth it. She shines as bright and loud as a colored Christmas display—her smile illuminating the most boring of places. She makes me feel strangely warm inside. Not in an aroused way—although there’s that, too—but in a familiar, cozy way. A chestnuts-roasting-over-an-open-fire way. Hot chocolate and marshmallows. Tamales and champurrado.
Suddenly I can picture her bundled in a scarf and bespoke Christmas hat. She’d wear those candy cane leggings while we celebrate the holidays with my family—Francesca and Mateo singing carols for us, and Dad ruining them with his booming, out-of-tune voice. Mom making Memo place the angel on the tree—and he’d inevitably tip it off center, and Nate eating all the pan dulce.
My thoughts are disrupted by the arrival of Mom and Abuela carrying trays laden with food. Olive and I jump up to help them and I’ve never been more grateful.
“We bought one of everything,” says Mom. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Starved.
