Page 39 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
Our eyes lock across the sea of people. In that moment, it's like everyone else fades away. I see the pride in his gaze, mirroring what I feel for him. We've both achieved our dreams today, and somehow, inexplicably, we've done it together.
I start to make my way towards him, but I'm waylaid by a group of elderly ladies from the neighborhood.
"Oh, Liv dear," Mrs. Watkins coos, patting my arm. "That pie of yours was simply divine. You simply must share the recipe!"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Ah, but then I'd have to kill you, Mrs. Watkins. Nonna's recipes are more closely guarded than the crown jewels."
As I chat, my eyes keep drifting back to Elliott. He's talking with some of his teammates now, but his gaze continually finds mine. There's a softness there I've never seen before, a warmth that makes my insides feel like freshly baked bread.
I wonder if he feels it too, this strange, wonderful connection we've forged. From flour-covered hands to grass-stained jerseys, we've supported each other through it all. And now, here we are, celebrating our victories together.
The music swells, and I find myself swaying to the beat. I catch Elliott's eye again and raise an eyebrow, silently asking if the great 'Iceman' can dance. He grins, a challenge accepted.
He weaves his way towards me, and I think: win or lose, with Elliott by my side, every day feels like a celebration.
The flash of cameras is blinding, turning the warm Ponsonby evening into a dazzling spectacle. I squint, momentarily disoriented by the barrage of light and shouted questions.
"Liv! Over here!"
"Elliott, a word about the match?"
"How does it feel to be rugby's new power couple?"
I feel a warm, steady hand on the small of my back. Elliott. His touch grounds me, and I take a deep breath, letting the chaos fade into background noise.
"Oh my," I mutter, leaning into him. "Is this what it's like to be a rugby star all the time?"
Elliott chuckles, his voice a low rumble. "Usually there's more mud involved. You holding up okay, pastry queen?"
I nod, mustering a smile for the cameras. "Just imagining them all as cannoli waiting to be filled. Much less intimidating that way."
We pose for a few more photos, answering questions with practiced ease. It's overwhelming, but there's an undercurrent of joy that can't be dampened. We've both achieved our dreams today, and sharing this moment... Well, it's sweeter than any dessert I've ever created.
As the crowd's attention shifts, Elliott gently steers us towards a quiet corner of the celebration. The fairy lights strung above cast a soft glow, reminding me of fireflies in Nonna's garden back in Italy.
"So," he says, his eyes twinkling. "Bolognese pie, huh? Sounds like something I'd eat after a match."
I laugh, swatting his arm playfully. "Don't knock it till you've tried it, Iceman. I'll have you know it's a perfect blend of comfort food and culinary innovation."
"I don't doubt it," he says softly, his expression growing serious. "You're pretty incredible, you know that?"
My heart does a little flip. "Look who's talking, Mr. Game-Winning Kick. We make quite the team, don't we?"
Elliott nods, taking my flour-dusted hand in his calloused one. "We do. Who'd have thought a rugby player and a baker..."
"Stranger things have happened." I squeeze his hand. "Like you actually learning to knead dough without turning my kitchen into a war zone."
We burst out laughing, the sound of our shared mirth rising above the din of the celebration. In this moment, surrounded by the twinkling lights and the warm Ponsonby air, I feel invincible. With Elliott by my side, I'm ready to take on whatever challenges come our way – on the rugby field, in the kitchen, or in life.
Elliott's laughter fades to a chuckle as he pulls me closer, his cologne mingling with the scent of fresh-baked bread that seems to follow me everywhere. "Speaking of war zones," he murmurs, his eyes darting to the swarm of reporters still hovering nearby, "how's it feel to be Auckland's newest celebrity chef?"
I roll my eyes, but can't help the grin tugging at my lips. "Oh, please. I'm hardly a celebrity. Though I suppose I could get used to signing pie crusts instead of autographs."
"Better work on your signature then, love," Elliott teases, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. "Can't have your fans confusing your autograph with a flour doodle."
I raise an eyebrow, feeling that familiar spark of playful competition ignite between us. "At least my fans can spell 'bolognese.' Unlike some rugby hooligans I know who think it's a type of shoe polish."
Elliott's eyes widen in mock offense. "Oi! I'll have you know we're very cultured. Why, just last week, the lads and I had a riveting discussion about... uh... the aerodynamics of meatballs."
