Page 40 of Only Mine
Promising?What am I, a food critic now?
Noa, bless her observant, probably smirking soul, chimes in. “There’s only one slice left. Usually I reserve it for Saint, but since you were first in line…”
Oh no.
My eyes widen. “Oh. No. Absolutely not. I couldn’t. That’s practically grand larceny in the Toussaint penal code, isn’t it?”
I glance at Saint, expecting a thundercloud, but find something far more unsettling: a flicker of amusement in his eyes and the barest hint of a grin playing on his lips.
He leans an arm on the counter, bringing him closer. Too close. The scent of him, cooking smoke and that subtle, woody spice, wraps around me.
“Grand larceny?” he repeats, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through me. “You have no idea, Wrenley. Crumble theft is a particularly heinous crime in Falcon Haven. Punishable by … well, we’d have to consult the ancient town charter. It involves public shaming, possibly.”
Noa chuckles, wiping down an already spotless part of the counter. “He’s kidding. Mostly. Though he does get a little possessive over that last slice.”
Noa slides the warm slice onto a plate with a spatula, then places it between us. “I’ll let you two work it out while I restock the muffins in the back.”
Noa winks at me—winksat me—before disappearing through the kitchen’s double doors.
I practically shove the air in the direction of the crumble. “You have it. Please. It’s all yours.”
My stomach rumbles with the loss, and I swear Saint hears it because he pushes off the counter and picks up a fork from the nearby container.
His fingers are long, calloused, and tattooed between each knuckle. The same fingers that had so gently bandaged my arm now wield a dessert fork like a weapon.
Saint stabs the fork into the crumble, expertly capturing a perfect bite, laden with apple and buttery topping. Then he extends it toward my mouth.
“Go on,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that seems to thrum through the floorboards. “Steal my crumble, Wrenley.”
My eyes lock with his. The air in the small café suddenly feels thick and hot as every background noise fades into adistant hum. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a subtle shift that makes my pulse hammer.
Slowly, because my limbs feel like they’re moving through honey, I lean forward.
My lips part, brushing against the cool metal of the fork as he gently settles it on my tongue.
The crumble is warm, sweet, the cinnamon a gentle spice. It melts. I melt. This is divine.
“Good?” he asks, his attention fixed on my mouth.
My cheeks are on fire. I snatch up the other fork, needing to do something with my hands. “It’s very good.”
“Just very good?” Saint stands close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “If you said that about one of my dishes, I’d kick you out of the kitchen.”
Before I can process what’s happening, he lifts another bite to my lips. “Try it again. Properly this time. Close your eyes.”
My eyes do the exact goddamn opposite. “What?”
“You heard me. Do it.”
He leaves no room for argument, but his tone is edged with something that isn’t annoyance for once.
I hesitate, then slowly let my eyelids drift shut. The world narrows to the scent of cinnamon, apples, and Saint.
“Now,” he murmurs, his voice closer, “you don’t just attack it with your teeth. You let it linger. Feel the warmth on your tongue first, then the way the apple gives, the texture. Let it coat your tongue before you even think about swallowing.”
He’s talking about the apple crumble. He is. But the way he’s describing this moment is like he’s giving instructions for a far more intimate moment, like if I were on my knees and he was unzipping his pants…
Mind out of the GUTTER, Wrenley! This is your boss now. And you’re in a public place. Have some decency.
