Page 40 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
I can't hold back my laughter, the sound bubbling up from deep in my chest. It's moments like these – ridiculous, perfect moments – that make everything we've been through worth it.
As our laughter subsides, I notice a shift in Elliott's gaze. The playfulness is still there, but it's joined by something deeper, more intense. My breath catches as he cups my face with his free hand, his touch impossibly gentle for someone known as the 'Iceman' on the field.
"Liv," he murmurs, and suddenly the noise of the celebration fades away. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart asElliott leans in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that's both tender and electrifying.
The world around us disappears. There's no crowd, no cameras, no pressure – just us, wrapped in a moment that feels like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once. I melt into the kiss, my hands finding their way to the nape of Elliott's neck, anchoring myself to him as the rest of Ponsonby falls away.
As we finally break apart, I'm breathless and giddy. The world slowly comes back into focus, and I realize we're surrounded by a sea of smiling faces. Our friends, family, and what seems like half of Ponsonby are beaming at us, their joy palpable in the warm evening air.
Elliott squeezes my hand, his blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, that's one way to make the front page, eh?"
I laugh, leaning into him. "Oh please, as if your game-winning kick wasn't enough."
He pulls me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist. "Nah, this is better. Much better."
I scan the crowd, my heart swelling as I take in the familiar faces. There's Maia, my sous chef, giving me an exaggerated wink. And Oscar, Elliott's brother, raising a glass in our direction. Even Mr. Scott, my curmudgeonly neighbor who swears he hates sweets, is here, discreetly wiping at his eyes.
"We did it," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. "We really did it."
Elliott's voice is low, just for me. "We sure did, love. Though I think 'weathering storms' is putting it mildly. More like survived a category five cyclone of drama, yeah?"
I snort, very unladylike. "Says the man who thought hiding in my walk-in fridge was a good escape plan."
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"
As we banter, I marvel at how far we've come. From that first meeting in a bar to this moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness. It hasn't been easy, but standing here, surrounded by love and the twinkling lights of Ponsonby, I know it's been worth every struggle.
My eyes finally land on Nonna Sofia, standing a little apart from the crowd. Her weathered face is alight with a smile that could outshine the sun. As our gazes meet, she gives me a small nod, filled with pride and something that looks suspiciously like 'I told you so.'
"Elliott," I murmur, "let's go say hi to Nonna."
We make our way through the crowd, the scent of fresh pastries from nearby cafes mingling with the crisp evening air. Elliott's hand is warm in mine, a steady anchor in the sea of well-wishers and flashing cameras.
Nonna Sofia's eyes twinkle as we approach, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "Ah,i miei cari," she says, her accent thick with emotion. "Come here, let me look at you both."
I step forward, enveloped in the comforting scent of rosemary and olive oil that always clings to her. "Nonna, I couldn't have done this without you."
She cups my face in her flour-dusted hands. "Nonsense, my Livia. The talent was always in you, like yeast in dough. I just helped it rise."
Elliott chuckles beside me. "I think I'm starting to speak fluent baking metaphor now."
Nonna's eyes crinkle with mischief. "Bene, bene. Then you know, young man, that the best recipes are passed down through generations."
I feel my cheeks flush, catching her not-so-subtle hint. "Nonna!"
But as I watch her gaze move between us, I'm struck by the depth of love in her eyes. It's not just pride in my accomplishments or approval of Elliott. It's a profound joy at seeing family – old and new – coming together.
"You know," Elliott says softly, "I think I'm finally understanding what you meant about tradition being the heart of good baking."
Nonna nods sagely. "Sì, because like love, the best traditions adapt. They grow stronger with each generation that embraces them."
As we stand there, bathed in the warm glow of Ponsonby's fairy lights, I feel a sense of rightness settle over me. This is where I belong – creating new traditions while honoring the old, with the people I love most in the world.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
LIV
