Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
After we talk it out, and I shut the voice note down, I text it to both my parents. Mom always has her phone with her, and while Dad never checks his, I know she’ll hear us just bubbling away and bursting over. She’ll know how special it is. We can leave for the bakery now, and by the time we get there, I know they’ll be bursting the same way we are.
I tug Luca back to the kitchen and snag my car keys off the metal fishbone hook by the door. I dangle them right in his face, though I shouldn’t do that. It’s tempting fate by tempting his toe-curling, panty-melting grin.
“It’s been quite a while since I was part of a real team like this,” Luca murmurs. “If I remember correctly, we have about ten minutes for me to compose myself in the car.”
“Ten minutes.” Composure? Great idea. Are you listening, hormones? Heart? Nipples? Vagina? Are we down to behave?
I already know the answer to that. Not a chance.
The best I’m going to get is a fraction of focus, but I’ll take it, run with it, create with it, and bake with it.
Chapter thirteen
Dulcie
Today was epic.
We stumble into Luca’s hotel room after midnight. My parents are likely just getting back to the house now as well, since we all left the bakery at the same time.
What. A. Fucking. Day.
We spent hours trying to perfect the perfect Earl Grey pie, and I think we finally have it, but from there, we went on quite an adventure. We had pies cranking out left and right and every other direction. North, south, up, down. Those poor ovens got a workout and then some today. Long after the bakery closed for the night, we were there, working as a team of four.
I’ve never seen my dad look so happy, or my mom so committed. I can’t even comment on Luca. All day long, I tried to focus solely on the pies and the bakery, but now that we’re back in the hotel room—exhausted, elated, and riding one major pie high—it’s different.
I can look at him all I want.
All it takes is two seconds and a good view of his disheveled hair, tousled from all the times he ran his fingers through it, his shirt still clinging damply to his body with sweat, and the satisfaction etched into every tired, tiny line on his face, and I’m finished.
He’s standing by the bathroom door, already reaching for the top button of his shirt to peel it away. I’m just as sweat-soaked as he is. I wear a tank top under my bakery uniform when I’m there. I shed the white coat and apron before I left, but my tank top is still a stage five clinger. It hasn’t dried out at all. I can’t remember a day when I ever soaked through my tank top and my uniform at once. Even my pants feel sticky.
Sure, it’s summer, but it wasn’t even that hot today. It was overcast, and the humidity was under control.
Then again, even at large catering events over the years, I haven’t felt run off my feet like this.
I was tired in every muscle and bone. I was so achingly weary that I could barely find the energy to drive us over here.
It seems Luca popping one single button on his shirt and standing there looking all rough and rugged, sweaty and worn in, and unthinkably dark and mysterious because he’s leaning slightly on the doorframe of the bathroom to hold himself up, but the pose pops all his muscles, is a good cure for all my ailments.
I dash across the room and launch myself at Luca, and not in a graceful way either. It’s more like a wrestling takedown move. I lock my legs around his waist, plowing into him so hard that I drive him straight back into the wall.
“Ooof,” he grunts, practically winded.
I let him catch his breath, nipping his ear, sinking my teeth into his neck and jaw, and tracing the seam of his lips before I kiss him. He can breathe through me. I’ll be his oxygen.
He links his hands under my ass and stumbles into the bathroom, where he already has the light on. He deposits me into the dry shower and tears off his shirt, causing buttons to cascade all over the floor. He shucks it, freaking growling at his belt like an enraged bear when it doesn’t snap open fast enough. He wrenches it so hard that it tears through a few of the loops. Then, he kicks his shoes off and peels down his pants, his boxers, and his socks all together.
Weren’t we just talking about magic?
Because that is a magic trick.
I’ve been standing here this whole time watching him instead of getting my own clothes off. I’m clumsy, shucking the sweat-soaked tank top and a bra so disgustingly wet that it makes me so freaking happy to have it on the floor that I nearly do a dance. Then I do a dance for real to get out of the sweaty yoga pants that I use as my uniform at the bakery. I’m surprised they don’t permanently smell like bread, pie, and cake by now.