Page 71 of Lost in the Moonlight

So, instead of objecting, instead of insisting he go do whatever he’d been about to do, I simply breathed out, “Thank you.”

He leaned down, lips brushing a feathery kiss along my forehead that had my eyes fluttering shut and my entire being convulsing as his scent, his kindness, his brave humanity filled my soul. It was all too much and not enough.

He released me, stepping back, and I opened my eyes to see his smile had returned. What would it be like to see him like this all the time? Happy. Content. I ached for him to have that possibility—for us both to have it.

“Do I get to have dessert before dinner?” he asked. “Because that smell is taunting me.”

I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not. It’s not even ready yet. That’s just the base. Plus, I’ve got the meal completely planned out, and I refuse to let you ruin it by starting with sweets.”

“The culinary snob in you is coming out again. Tell me, Sweetness, have you ever had cake for breakfast?”

I rolled my eyes. “I mean, loaf cakes and scones might as well be cake.”

“No. I mean a full-on, layered cake with buttercream icing and all.”

“And I suppose you have?” I asked, but there was doubt in my voice.

“It was practically a requirement in our house after any celebration. We always had too much cake left, and my sisters and I made it a thing. Cake for breakfast. Sometimes…” His voice lowered as if telling me a sensual secret. “Sometimes, we even put it in a bowl, poured milk over it, and ate it like cereal.

I gasped, and he snickered.

“The absolute horror on your face is worth the risk that came from telling you that secret. If it ever appears in some news article someday—the Matherton siblings ate cake for breakfast—our parents would take the heat for our unhealthy lifestyle, the press would make some Marie Antoinette reference about us needing to be beheaded, and yet it would still be worth it.”

Multiple emotions ran through me. Pleasure that he trusted me. Frustration that he’d had to live with those kinds of thoughts most of his life, doubting all the people around him, having to hold back his secrets from those who only saw him as the president’s son—someone to use, someone to gain something from. Even once I’d figured out who Lincoln was, I’d never really seen him in that light. And now, knowing him more, all I saw was a passionate, talented, caring human. A man living with buckets of grief and yet able to see through it enough to reach out to others.

The dark superhero and archangel mixed, hiding in plain sight.

I knew what it was like to always be keeping part of yourself from those you were with.

I wanted his playfulness to remain, the teasing taunts rather than the dark shadows that could crawl over him as easily as they crawled over me, so I kept the horrified look on my face before responding. “It’s blasphemy. That’s utter blasphemy. Not only because milk would ruin the texture and flavor of the cake as it was designed to be eaten by the chef who made it, but because that is not breakfast.”

“Please. And donuts or pancakes or fancy crepes are any better?”

I shook my head. “Different textures. Different combinations of flavors and purpose.”

He stepped around me, heading back toward the kitchen. “I’m going to turn you from a food snob yet. Where’s the dessert?”

I chased after him as he searched the kitchen, eyes landing on the chocolate layer I’d pulled from the oven. He slid open a drawer and grabbed a fork. I barely reached him in time to stop him from plunging it into the center of the brownie-like combination.

“Don’t you dare ruin my dessert!” My laugh spoiled the command. I brought his hand with the fork to my chest, snaking the utensil away with my free hand and flinging it toward the sink.

“What are you offering instead? You know, to keep me from diving into this treat that is just sitting here in my house, waiting for me?” he asked, gaze falling to my lips and then down to my chest, which was rising and falling quickly with each wild beat of my heart.

When his eyes returned to mine, they were molten. Warm blueberry syrup melting my reserves as if they were butter, making me want to throw every caution to the wind and take, take, take. Gorge myself on the passion he was presenting me with. That all-consuming want sucked me right in because before I knew it, I was rising on my toes and placing a soft but almost chaste kiss on his lips.

When I went to step back, one of his hands gripped my hip while the other went to the back of my head, and he pressed our mouths together with a fierceness that surprised me. Every vein that had been dancing along the edge of the fire burst open. Twined in deep with the longing was a feeling of utter acceptance. For some reason, this man saw me. All of me. And liked it. Wanted more of it.

Joy. This was joy. All the other times I’d thought I’d experienced pure happiness, I’d been wrong. Locked to him, bodies and souls melting together…this was what happiness was. It was the absolute definition of it.

God, I wanted to keep him. Keep every moment.

When I finally came up for air, when I finally broke away, my voice was breathless. “Dinner will be ready in an hour if you get out of the kitchen and let me finish rather than distracting me.”

His eyes lit up. “I’ve been blamed on numerous occasions by my family for forgoing food in lieu of a good distraction.”

“Not on my watch!”

“Food snobandfood police.”

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