Page 36 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

I boil the pasta. Combine flour and butter in a small dish and create a roux. Add the whole milk, the vanilla bean, the salt. Then comes the mixing of the cream cheese, the sugar, the eggs. A batter is formed and added to the pasta, along with blueberries. I top the custard with sugared panko breadcrumbs and set the creation in the oven.

And when I pull it from inside—slightly puffed and golden brown—I know that my mojo is back. And sure, it’s not a grilled cheese recipe, but it’s something new. Creative.

Exciting.

I turn triumphantly to Lucy and Thomas, who are chatting next to the cooling tin of Thomas’s espresso brownies, and set my dessert on a trivet beside them.

Lucy eyes my contribution. “What is it?”

And I don’t back down from her gaze when I say, “Dessert pasta.” I pause. “Or, as some would call it, sweet macaroni.”

She blanches and blinks, rearing back.

Thomas leans closer to examine my creation. “Impressive.”

I step back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Thanks, man. Yours too.” His brownies do look and smell good, and I’m not surprised he made them coffee-flavored, seeing as how he owns the coffee shop. But I know I’ve got this in the bag. Just like when I hit on a winning grilled cheese recipe, I’m confident in this.

I redirect my confidence toward Lucy, who is still staring at my dessert as if it’s diseased. My confidence slips a bit. Maybe this was a dumb move.

Her lips twist, and her eyes finally find mine. They’re appraising, and there’s a question in them. She’s confused, and I get it. Up until a few days ago, we were at each other’s throats, and here I go making a dessert inspired by her token phrase that’s as cute as she is.

But like Marilee said…sometimes inspiration comes in the most unlikely of places.

It’s not like I asked to be inspired by Lucy. Not like I wanted to be. I just…was. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

“All right.” Thomas rubs his hands together and then starts to slice into his brownies with a knife. “Moment of truth.” He slips a piece out onto a thick napkin, crumbles of chocolate falling onto the counter. Then he lifts it toward Lucy’s mouth.

Is he going to try to feed it to her?

I literally have to hold back a growl.

Thankfully, he switches directions and hands it to her, so I don’t have to go Hulk Hogan on him—not because I’m feeling anything in particular for Lucy. No. I’m just…grateful to her and the inspiration she provided. And she’s my sister’s best friend, which means she falls under my protection.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Blake.

She takes an enthusiastic Lucy-sized bite of the brownie—tearing into it like she tears into life—and mmms. “That’s so good, Thomas!”

You’d swear the guy had just been told he’d found the cure to cancer. His smile is bright enough to light the Vegas Strip for days. “I’m glad you like it, Luce.”

Oh, come on.

I swipe a hand across my mouth to keep from saying something not so nice.

When Lucy is done chewing, she turns her eyes to me and flashes me a grin that looks super forced. “Your turn.” The words ring falsely bright in the air, vibrating like a bell.

And I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I honestly don’t.

But I step around Thomas so I’m standing right in front of Lucy, grab a fork from the counter, sink it into the soft, puffed mass of noodles and custard, and hold the bite up to her mouth, which rounds into an O. Steam wafts from the dessert, twining upward between us.

I blow on the food to cool it down.

Her eyes widen.

One of my hands is just below the fork in case a bite drops, and the other guides the food to her waiting lips. And I can’t even begin to describe the primal satisfaction that wends through me when she takes the bite of something I made between those lips, closes her eyes, and groans. Not a polite mmm. This is a sound of pure pleasure, a sound that holds nothing back. A sound I could sink into. One that leaves heat swirling in my stomach.

“Well?” I both hate and love how low and husky my voice has gone and how my body involuntarily hovers closer to Lucy. She’s got just a tiny bit of custard on the corner of her mouth, and it’s all I can do not to lean in and remove it with my own. “What do you think?”

As if I need to be told she loved it. Her response said it all.

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