Page 49 of Mistletoe Latte

“No problem, Nick.”

Oh shit, she was standing up. “Yeah, goodbye.” Nick ended the call and used the excuse of putting his phone away to try to tuck his erection into his belt. Jesus, it was like he was fourteen all over again. Just because a pretty girl stroked her hair and looked at him didn’t mean… Fuck, he was making it worse.

Dropping an elbow to the counter, as if that’d hide the obvious tent in his jeans, Nick said, “That was Skylar.”

“Is she okay?” Emma sounded concerned.

“Yeah. She’s at a friend’s. I told her to stay there for the night.”

“With that Mrs. Wilkins.” Her concern for Skylar pivoted to a strangely sly statement.

“Uh-huh. Do you know her?”

Emma laughed and shook her head. “No. She seemed nice.”

“I think she’s a real estate agent.” Nick shrugged. He was probably supposed to talk to Skylar’s friend’s parents, but he didn’t have time for his own friends never mind putting together play dates with adults. Emma laughed like a fairy tale princess singing to a bird and Nick followed suit, though he felt like a braying ass in comparison.

“It’s getting late,” she said, staring up at the clock.

“Yeah,” he whispered.It’s dark and we’re all alone.“You…you need to be getting to your new place.” He needed to get that fantasy out of his head. She was leaving, plain and simple.

“Um…well, it’s. It’s not available.” Emma held up her phone, her eyes bigger than before. She looked near tears as she lowered the screen. “Maybe I could stay—”

“Dinner.”

Her full eyebrow quirked up and she stared at him.

“We need dinner. I should make dinner. For you and me.” Of course. It was so simple. With a jaunt in his step, Nick tugged off his apron, tossed it into the box behind the counter, and walked to the door. Rather than slip in, he held it open for the lady, who was blushing pink. He breathed in the scent of her walking past him. Sugar and cream, just as he expected.

“You really don’t have to cook for me.”

“Of course I do. You’ve been doing all the hot oven slaving. It’s only fair.”

Even though Emma was in the lead, Nick flipped the light switch for the storage room/kitchen and walked up to the oven with purpose. He rolled up his sleeves, gathered a pan from the sink, started up the lone burner, and paused. Bags of sugar and flour sat in the makeshift pantry. There was a noticeable lack of filet mignon and stuffed mushrooms to impress a lady. “I could make eggs?” he said, finding a carton in the fridge and the butter.

Emma smiled. “Sounds delicious.”

“Oh.” There was one thing he knew to make to show off. “And fat crepes.”

“What are fat crepes?”

He laid out his tools, cut the pat of butter with a chef’s knife, and—using the tip—drew it around the pan. In a bowl, Nick combined the flour and sugar. “It’s kind of a long story,” he said while whisking the batter.

“We’ve got time.” Emma jumped off the floor and landed on a pile of boxes. She crossed her short legs at the ankles and waved them about.

Nick dumped the batter into the pan while watching her feet hover above the floor. At that height, he could drop to his knees, straddle her thighs across his shoulders, and… “Shit. Sorry.” He raced to pour the excess batter back into the bowl while the bottom of his fat crepe burned.

Scraping it off, he flipped the crepe and waited for the sizzle before speaking. “Back in the Marines, there was one day of leave when a bunch of us found ourselves stranded. Nothing too dire, but we were all nineteen and starving. My buddy found a bunch of baking stuff, and I said I could make crepes.”

He shook the first fat crepe onto a plate, then started a second. “Pretty sure I meant to say pancake, but my mouth said crepe. They gave me so much shit for it, and I had to save face without having a clue what I was doing. So I made skinny pancakes or…”

“Fat crepes,” Emma said, laughing.

“Here, they’re best eaten warm.” He passed her the plate.

She struggled to roll up the severely caramelized bottom and the soggy top. But as she took a little nibble, her eyes burned bright. “If I made anything like this back in Portland, they’d have blackballed me from every restaurant.”

Damn. Why did I think this was a good idea?

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