Page 81 of You Cake My Breath Away

I smile into my wine glass and dig into my pasta. Flavors burst on my tongue, warming me from the inside out. Fresh basil, chocolate-sprinkled tomatoes, and ricotta cheese all melt perfectly together to create my favorite Italian dish.

“This is amazing.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

His feet tangle with mine under the table, and a sense of peace overcomes me. Images of us eating dinner together every night, filling the table with a kid or two, maybe a dog, all speed through my mind as he smiles at me. We chat about the bakery opening but stay far away from the hosting gig he’s still waiting to hear about. Respecting the fact that he’s not ready to talk about it, I move onto telling him about a cake flavor I want to try.

“I bought you something,” he says.

“A gift?” I press my hand against my chest, my heart thumping beneath my palm. “For me?”

He sets a wrapped box in front of me and places a soft kiss on my lips. I try to deepen it, but he pulls back too soon with a smile on his face. I squint at him, curious as to what he has up his sleeve.

A laugh rips out of me when I unwrap the disposable camera.

“For when you’re ogling me.”

“You’re funny.” I can’t keep the grin off my face as I spin the dial and aim it at him across the table. “Smile.”

Of course, he scowls, but then I get a genuine smile out of him and I’m scrambling to spin the dial again to capture it.

“Come here.” He pats his lap.

I oblige his request and settle onto his legs. He wraps his arm around my waist, and I hold up the camera, taking a picture of us. He steals the camera from me and presses his lips to mine, tongue dipping in to taste the white wine on my breath. I forget about the stolen camera until the flash and click bring my attention to his raised hand.

“That one is for me,” he says, spinning the dial.

I turn around in his arms, ready for another picture. He holds the camera out and tells me to smile, but at the last moment, he brings it closer to my chest and snaps the picture.

“That one, too.”

I escape from his canoodling and clear the table of our plates while he continues taking pictures of me in domestic bliss. He comes up behind me at the sink, brushing my hair aside as his warm lips kiss up the side of my neck.

“I’ll warm up the world’s best snickerdoodle bread and meet you in front of the fireplace.”

Chapter forty

Tilly

Orange flames crackle, wafting the slightly pungent odor of burning wood toward me and Archer cuddled up on the new couch. The stem of my wine glass shimmers as I twist it and relax into the warmth of his embrace. With his arms around me, I’m filled with a burst of confidence to tackle almost anything, even the conversation I’m terrified to have.

“What are you thinking about?” Archer’s breath skates down my neck, and he presses a kiss into my hair. “World domination via baking?”

I throw my head back and laugh, accidentally spilling Archer’s beer all over us.

“Oops, sorry.” I rise from the couch, trying and failing to keep the beer from soaking into the back of my dress. Archer rips off his shirt, and my tongue peeks out to moisten my lips. His abs call to my fingers, begging them to run along the hardened pillows of muscle.

“If you wanted me to get naked, all you had to do was ask.” He blots at the back of my dress, chuckling as he tries to sop up the beer.

“In your dreams, bucko.” I give him a peck on the lips and push him toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you get us fresh drinks and I’ll steal a shirt and sweats from your closet.”

He leans against the door frame, thumbs hooked through his belt loops and a sly smile on his face. “We could forego the clothes and wrap up in blankets.”

“Nice try. We have stuff to talk about, and you’re not going to distract me with Satan’s washboard.”

His dark chuckle follows me up the stairs, and I head into his bathroom to slip out of my clothes and throw them into the hamper. After staying here off and on for the past couple weeks, I’m familiar with the layout of the room, the long dresser covered with teakwood scented cologne and deodorant, the little bowl of candies he hides behind the TV. It’s comfortable and inviting, a place where I could get used to spending more time.

I slip into a hoodie and a pair of sweats from his closet before I freshen up and head back into the room. An open notebook lies on his side of the bed, and a forgotten longing to know what he’s writing moves to the forefront of my mind. He’s always writing in the book, and any time I’ve asked him what it contains, he brushes me off like it’s a secret.

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