Page 45 of Kiss and Make Love

The Fantasy

Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.

-Dr. Seuss

Another Saturday morning, another London Fog, another day to sit at Bocca Felice and write. The table I always sit at near the back is free, so I snag the wicker chair and make myself comfortable. Taking the laptop and notes from my bag, I arrange my set-up just so on the oak surface. My computer in the middle, notes to the left, a space for my scone and tea to the right.

I don’t always write in public. In fact, I like to write in the privacy of my apartment. When the Italian café opened four months ago, however, it became my regular weekend writing spot. Not because the drinks were amazing, and not because the scones were to die for, and noteven because the waitstaff were kind and attentive. No. It was because of Marco.

Wonderful, handsome Marco.

My dream man come true. It took me a full five minutes to pick my jaw up off the floor when I first saw him helping his mother wait tables. Okay, maybe not that long, but I’m pretty sure everyone assumed I was having some kind of episode. My brain short-circuited the instant I laid eyes on him.

Tall, dark, handsome. Yes, the cliché is not lost on me, but it fits him to a T. He’s a six-foot-tall curly-haired Italian stallion, and I want to ride him. He would never know that’s what I want to do. Goodness me, no. My dirty thoughts are reserved for my mind and my writing. To everyone else, I’m just the shy, mousy brunette who keeps to herself. If they got a glimpse of what went on in my head?—

“Georgia!”

Abby calls my name and snaps me out of my reverie. I grab my usual order off the butcher block countertop, thank her, and head back to my corner table. Most staff know me by name, and I know them. I've been coming every Saturday morning since the family-run café opened. Same time, same order.

It’s nice to be recognized as a regular at a local hot spot—to be noticed. Something I don’t normally feel in my everyday life. How sad is that? I want to know if Marco notices me the same way I notice him.In fact, I’m dying to know, but can’t work up the courage to talk to him about anything other than coffee. Or scones. Stupid, delicious scones.

But really, how could he not realize?

He works Saturdays, so that’s when I’m here. I mean, he works other days of the week too, but I have a day job to worry about, so I can’t spend hours sitting here during the work week like I can on the weekend. Still, I’m here every Saturday. I may as well have a giant neon sign strapped above my head that reads: I WANT YOUR DICK!

Too dramatic?

Yeah. Too dramatic.

We’ve only chatted about inconsequential café-related topics. I’d like to believe that my quiet presence readsmysteriousinstead ofweirdo, like it probably does. But Marco always makes time to at least say hello or grab me another drink if necessary. Spoiler: it’s always necessary.

Goodness, I love seeing his large hand wrapped around the yellow ceramic mug whenever he drops it off at my table. But I’d love it even more wrapped around my throat.

I take a bite of my Saskatoon berry white chocolate scone—an audible moan may or may not escape my mouth—and resolve to get to work instead of fantasizing about Marco any longer. Or, at least, putting my fantasies down on paper where they can actually be productive.

“I Only Have Pies for You” did well enough last year, but releasing a sequel would be another step toward quitting the day job and becoming a full-time writer. Titles are the best part. And though my mind is struggling to focus on anything other than Marco’s full bottom lip, I force myself to create food puns. Cute food puns.

Pudding Up with You.

Muffin Compares to You.

S’more Love.

All decent options, but not quite hitting what I want. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, banishing Marco from my brain while I brainstorm. Some authors like to do the title last, or it magically comes to them while somewhere in the middle. Others have inspiration hit before the story even forms. I always have to consider mine throughout the entire process. Craft a few, see which one sticks in my brain and makes me giddy with delight.

This story was going to begin where “I Only Have Pies for You” ended. My timid female main character owned her own bakery—because what else would a female do in a romance novel? Kidding, kidding—and catered a big event for a prestigious tech firm in the city. There, she met the billionaire male main character who owned the company, of course, and romantic hijinks ensued. Enter Book Two.

So, a punchy, baked goods-related title is essential.

The aroma of baked bread fills the room, and I peek out the corner of one eye to see Marco coming from the kitchen with four fresh loaves of sourdough. God, could he be more appealing? Is there anything hotter than a man with fresh baking? The answer is no, by the way.

Usually, it’s Maria, Marco’s mom, who bakes bread on Saturday mornings. She must be out today. Can Marco bake? Because that would add a new level to the attraction scale. I can’t help but picture it. Marco in the kitchen, alone. His capable hands throw the dough against the counter, rolling it, working it. The veins on his arms are visible because of the pressure he puts on the dough while he kneads it over and over?—

That’s it!

All You Knead is Love.

Lost in my excitement, I let a littlewhoop!escape. Slapping one hand over my mouth, I turn to see Marco giving me a look. One eyebrow is raised, as if to askyou okay over there?and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. I give him a smile back and wave to show I’m alright.

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