“You’re welcome,” he says, looking up at me expectantly.
He wants me to taste it and tell him that it’s good. I can’t let him down, so I take a sip. Rich chocolate explodes on my tongue.
He giggles. “You have a whipped cream mustache.”
“It’s really good, James,” I say.
He looks pleased by my approval.
Warmth erupts across my back. I know without turning around that Emma is standing behind me.
I turn to look at her.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she breathes.
Does she know the effect her existence has on me? Just the sight of her breathing in front of me is enough for me to lose my mind.
“Miss Turner,” I say. “I need to have a word with you. In private.”
“Right now?” she asks, glancing behind her shoulder at the man she was talking to earlier. He has a strong, muscular physique. I wonder if she would let him do the things that I did to her last night.
“Yes, right now,” I grit out. “Helena can watch over the kids for the rest of the night.”
She glances behind her shoulder at the man again.
“Am I keeping you from something, Miss Turner?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. “No, I was just checking up on Rosalie. She’s had way too much sugar already, and I can’t have her sneaking more behind my back.”
Realization dawns on me as I look at the bonfire again. Rosalie is sitting right beside the man Emma was talking toearlier. She’s enraptured by one of the entertainers who’s in the middle of a clown act.
All the times I caught Emma looking behind her shoulder, her eyes weren’t searching for that man. She was looking at Rosalie.
“You just got here,” says a quiet voice.
James is looking at me with puppy dog eyes.
“Do you want me to stay for dinner?” I ask him.
He nods. “Yes. And stay for the magic show, too.”
“There’s a magic show?” I ask, looking at Emma.
“Yes, I kind of went all out,” she says, glancing down at her feet. “I hope that’s okay.”
Her sudden bashfulness hits me in the center of my chest.
“It’s more than okay.” I clear my throat. “You did a great job with everything.”
Her eyes fly up to mine. God help me, I’m going to lose myself in those eyes one day.
We head toward the dinner table. It’s been set up for the kids, Emma, and Helena. But they add another chair for me. There’s a floral decoration in the center with candles around it. There are also some spooky Halloween decorations in the form of plastic spiders on the table and cobwebs around the flower vase.
Rosalie refuses to sit at the table, claiming she’s not hungry.
“I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t.”
“Do you want me to remove the plastic spiders, Rosalie?” I ask her.