Page 101 of Red Hot Roaster

With that, she turned me around to face the bookshelves. Now crowded in among the Connolly family pictures were new framed photos. A young mother, with dark blue eyes and curly dark hair, holding a baby. Another picture of the same woman cuddling a toddler. Hugging a preschooler in front of a little Christmas tree. My mamma and me?

More photos…a young Angelina linking arms with a younger boy. As a high schooler, wearing a cap and gown. As a little girl holding a stuffed dog. As a toddler herself.

A group shot of an older man, two young guys and a beautiful young woman, all smiling behind a birthday cake. All looking like each other, all looking like me. Or maybe it was the other way around.

I moved closer to peer at one photo, different from the others. It was a picture of Rose standing in front of the shelves, holding another frame. This time a message, not a photo.

RAFE, COME HOME. COME HOME TO ME.

I swung around and pulled Rose tight to me. Fuck…turned out I was a crier too.

Chapter 52

Rose

Rafe was taking his second shower of the day, alone this time, while I was pulling goodies out of the fridge for our annual Christmas Eve smorgasbord.

Smoked salmon, cheeses, pickled herring, meats, crab dip, crackers, mini-rolls, veggies, olives, mixed nuts all crowded our dining table until there wasn’t an inch to spare. Aquavit, wine, whiskey, a coffee carafe and, yes, water marched along the sideboard. Later, we’d fill our plates, grab napkins and drinks, and go sit in the living room before the tree and fire.

Earlier, I’d switched on every twinkly light in the place—the tree, the mantle, the stair railings, the front porch, the back patio. Rafe had put up the rest of the lights outside while I’d worked on the food. Finn and Lauren would be back home any minute now. She’d asked me if she could bring Jean-Luc and Cab, and I’d said of course, of course. Made me wonder where she’d spent Christmas EveEve.

I was distracting myself so I wouldn’t join Rafe. I’d already taken my second shower, and we didn’t have time for a repeat of what happened after our first shower that morning.

Last night, after…everything…we’d settled on the couch, me on Rafe’s lap, arms wrapped around each other, and talked and kissed for hours. We’d both fallen sound asleep, exhausted, dogs snuggling on the floor below us. Rafe had roused enough to carry me up to bed.

This morning had been a different story. I smiled as I remembered…

My eyes drifted open. The room was darker than a dog’s mouth. Not even an inkling of dawn out the window. Why was I waking up this early? Mateo and Finn had assured me the café was covered—they’d been picking up the slack for a few days now. I could sleep in….

I started to roll over onto my back…and I couldn’t. I froze. Nope—the opposite, in fact. My entire backside was roasty-toasty from my head to my heels. And not the heels of the stiletto type, but the heels of the naked type.

I was pushing back against an equally clothing-optional Rafe, who was nestled all up in my business. Face in my hair, arms pulling me flush to his furred chest, packed abs, velvet length, thick thighs and bent knees. Everything—and I meant everything—was hard, yet heated. No doubt about it. Rafe was warm for my form.

Last evening hadn’t been a dream.

When I tried to sit up, he rolled me over to face him, pressing every inch to naked inch of our fronts together. I slid my free arm around his ribs to run my palm up and down his spine, my fingernails scraping over his bunched back muscles. Turning my cheek to his throat, I squeezed even closer—if that were possible—and started to lick the tattoos covering the delts on his right arm.

Rafe groaned as I dragged my body down his, pulling his arm out straight, and continuing to lick—and, yes, bite—the winding images of his black ink sleeve. Then I stopped.

On the inside of his wrist, where it’d been blank, there was an intricate rose. A swirl of countless petals in hot pink, delicately edged in black, a couple of inches in diameter. Was there a matching one on his other wrist? I didn’t check to see, instead gently touching my lips to the tattoo before sliding my face over to his core to continue my licking journey.

Just as I was about to take him deep, Rafe growled “my turn” and reached to pull me up his body. Shifting me to my back, he weighed me down with his warmth and took my mouth in a ferocious kiss. We stayed in a luscious wet tangle before he started moving down my body, intent on making his own explorations.

By the time we made it to the shower, we’d exchanged three orgasms (me) and two orgasms (him). Shuddering, shattering, shouting… Good thing we were alone in the house. And those didn’t count the ones Rafe gifted me after drying and patting me all over and taking me right back to our bed. We made sweet, slower love that time around. Still as shattering, just not as loud.

That howling must have been the dogs.

Between showers, sexy times and general fooling around, we’d made three decisions. Together. Well, mostly. And I’d captured them on green Post-its, now lined up on our butcher block island. Rafe’s were still there, just moved over.

Post-it Number One:I was going to drive back to Boise with Rafe and Princess the day after Christmas. I’d stay the week and fly back home after New Year’s. Mateo and Finn would hold the fort down, trading openings and closings, and Pete would keep up with the roasting. Confirmed by a flurry of texts—and, in Pete’s case, a quick call.

Post-it Number Two:After Rafe returned from Boise early-February-ish, he’d reenter the house, our bedroom, our bed—no waiting required or allowed. He’d already reentered my heart… In truth, he’d never left it.

Post-it Number Three:Rafe would resume his roaster and production manager role at the Chocolate Lab, with Mike as occasional backup. He’d refused any pay, though, and insisted on putting some of his savings into the café’s growth and Finn’s college needs.That’s investing in our future, babe,he’d growled.

Later, after a break for lunch—to build up our strength, of course—Rafe had phoned his uncle. Moving away to give them some privacy, I’d been pulled back to Rafe’s chest where he’d hung on to me for the duration of the call. I’d hugged his forearm and listened as they’d grumbled through their men-of-few-words introductions, appreciation and wonderment. They ended the call after making plans to Zoom tomorrow when the whole family was over at Tony’s for Christmas dinner.

Rafe was singing in the shower now—a new thing—and his voice filtered all the way down from our bathroom.When we were alone, doors stayed open.

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