Page 34 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“I’m glad someone does, because I’m beginning to think I’ve morphed into a skunk. I know my hair’s gone to pot and I’m guessing I could probably use a shower after all that running, but all the same…”
“There is nothing the matter with the way that you look. Far from it. I-I’m sorry for making a move on you earlier. It was wrong,” he prattles as he takes his own seat. “I don’t want you thinking I was taking advantage. I-I feel terrible about it.” He takes a swig of wine. Now I decide that it’ll be impossible to get through this with H2O alone, so I pour myself a glass too. A very full glass. “Ten minutes earlier and you were being pursued by a hideous creature who had God knows what on his mind. I feel like I’m hardly any better myself.”
“Well,” I say slowly. Okay, now I understand him clamming up on me the moment we set foot inside and it helps me relax. “The difference there is that I wanted you to ravish me, while we were sitting on the bench by the river. So I think I’ll let you off. Besides, I didn’t exactly protest when you finally got around to it.”
“You didn’t. That’s true.” Tiago treats me to a semi-smile and then we are back to the weird silence again.
I sink some of the pink before tucking into the stew that has been ladled into my bowl. It’s delicious. Full of flavour, hearty and warming. Not exactly the kind of dish I’d go for on a summer’s night, but in the absence of salad I can’t be choosy.
“It’s actually good to get away from the girls for a few hours,” I say, blurting out the first thing that pops into my head to fill the silence. “Kelly’s had us hiking and Radhika’s like a bird of prey… when she isn’t panning the vista for eligible bachelors, she’s planning her outfit to go clubbing later in the week.”
“Not your idea of a holiday, then?”
“About as far from as can be. I’m here to relax and unwind. The only sights I want to see are foodie ones. Box most definitely ticked this afternoon… as well as tonight. This is excellent, by the way.”
“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.”
This is like watching paint dry. We know we have a spark (here I go, not so much ramping but amping the electrical jargon up again). I’ve just cleared up any doubts he may have by declaring how much I would have liked him to snog my face off earlier on. Why, then, does it still feel as if we are at loggerheads? How is a girl supposed to eat, when all she wants is to be devoured herself?
I can’t help but wonder how Tiago would react if I was to instigate a game of footsie beneath the table, but somehow I manage to restrain myself. Call me old-fashioned, but I want him to make the first move.
As if reading my mind, he jumps up, clears the plates, and places a tub of luxury ice cream in the middle of the table along with a pair of spoons. This is more like it. I dig in greedily without waiting for an invite, accidentally flicking a morsel of the melting Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey right in Tiago’s face, giving the phrase ‘ice breaker’ a whole new meaning.
“Ow!” he wipes his cheek and sucks the ammunition off his finger. “There was a chocolate banana chunk in that!”
“Good!” I giggle.
“Oh, yeah? Come here and say that,” he challenges, eyes twinkling with naughtiness. And suddenly we are back to a lust with the intensity of the tango.
I tease him with a spoonful of the refreshingly creamy ice cream, licking it from an upright spoon which might be a metaphor for something– erherm– else. The sparkle in his eyes revs up to a smoulder that tells me there is no need for further translation of my body language. Slowly, trying to ignore the flush of heat between my thighs now that we are very much game back on, I abandon the spoon in the tub, feeling ridiculously empowered, and get up from the table.
I let my messy hair loose from its band, walk over to him and fling a leg across his lap, so that I am straddling him on his chair. The two of us let our gazes flicker all over our respective faces, drinking in every inch of our mutual attraction. Tiago’s pupils are sexily dilated. He seems pretty ready for another hit. His mouth dips to my collar bone, raunchy butterfly kisses trailing across the sensitive part of my neck and down to my chest. I weave my fingers in the enticing gaps between the buttons of his shirt, fingertips on fire from the touch of skin on skin all over again. He hoists my T-shirt off and tosses it behind him, deftly wrapping one arm around me to unhook my bra, caressing the small of my back as he lets his eyes rove over my naked body.
“God, you are so beautiful. I know it’s the cliche out of every hot movie scene… but you are so,” kiss “flipping,” kiss “beautiful.”
I am also a marshmallow. Every part of me is ready to comply with this man’s demands. It’s absurdly foolish given our backstory. My only hope is for Elsa to jump out of a cupboard to kill the passion in its tracks.
But on this sultry June night, fate has other plans. Tiago carries me from the chair to his bedroom, where we fall onto the mattress in a tangle of lust. Soon we are lost to Portugal, lost to my little café at the end of the pier, lost to the world… creating our own very private universe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The question isburning my lips. It’s almost as hot as our lovemaking last night. Much like that final orgasm after round number three, I can’t hold back any longer. I take a sip of coffee for courage. White coffee. Tiago may be half-Portuguese but the initial outlook is good. He has a bottle of milk in the fridge. Maybe this could be the start of something with a little longevity?
“So, are you going to drop the petition now?”
He butters his toast with a noticeably trembling hand and nudges the box of shop-bought croissants, urging me to take another, as if that might persuade me to change the subject. A lengthy silence stretches between us as I cut into my pastry and smother it with butter and strawberry jam.
“I, erm… What it is…” he waves his toast about. “There’s no easy way of saying this.”
My heart hammers. How could I have served myself up on a plate to this man? I’m already sensing this thing between us now has as much lifespan as the flavour in a stick of bubblegum.
“Please just say it!” I grip my croissant tighter.
“I sort of forged the signatures,” he stammers so quickly that I’m not sure I hear him right.
With his free hand he runs his fingers through his hair. Now I am sure that I heard him right.
“Wh-what do you mean?” I drop the sticky pastry I am holding back onto the plate.
