Page 41 of Only Mine
My brain has the right idea, but my body doesn’t want to hear it. My thighs clench together, containing the ache.
The fork touches my lips again. I part them, a shiver tracing down my spine as he carefully places the bite inside. This time, I follow his instructions, the crumble a slow explosion of flavor and sensation, the buttery topping melting, the apples soft and tangy. It’s ridiculously, obscenely good.
And the way he described it…
My eyes fly open as I swallow, a small, mortified sound escaping me. “Oh my god. That’s your crumble. You’re the one who makes it, aren’t you? I just ate your crumble. Twice.”
Saint’s mouth quirks. He sets the fork down on the plate, then leans back and crosses his arms. “Technically, Noa and I have joint custody. We created it together when she was a student in my cooking class.”
My brows jump, and I blurt, “You taught people? Willingly? And you didn’t make them cry?”
“I taught a local class for one summer when I first opened C’est Trois to bring in business. Never again.”
Saint’s probably referring to the teaching, but my brain, traitor that it is, is stuck on the other kind of instruction he’d just delivered, the one that had my thighs clenching and my stomach doing a nervous, fluttery jig. The man weaponizes dessert.
And I, apparently, am a willing casualty.
His gaze drops to my mouth again, a slow, deliberate trail that makes me have to remember to breathe. “You have a little… right there.”
Saint reaches out, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips. His touch is like fire, and it fuckingbrandsme.
“Oh.” My voice is a whisper. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. His thumb lingers for a fraction of a second too long, his blue eyes holding mine captive. The air crackles again.
Add walking electrical storm to his résumé, too.
“You should probably,” I stammer, gesturing vaguely toward the door, “get back to your restaurant things. Chef duties. Important stuff.”
My brain has officially shriveled.
“Probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. His gaze is still on my mouth, as if he’s memorizing the shape of it.
I need to escape. Now. Before I do something monumentally stupid, like ask him to feed me the rest of the crumble.
Or kiss me.
“Well, this has been … crumbly,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut at thehorrorof what I just said. “I, um, I have to go.”
I grab my purse, nearly knocking over my coffee cup. Smooth. So smooth. Saint raises an eyebrow, a hint of that earlier amusement back in his eyes. I practically flee Libby Jude’s, the cheerful bell above the door mocking my clumsy retreat.
Outside, the crisp autumn air is a shock to my heated skin. I gulp it down, leaning against the cool metal of the Range Rover, trying to get my pulse under control.
What in the actual hell was that? It felt like foreplay. Hot, intense, cinnamon-dusted foreplay.
I need a distraction. A big one. I drive a few blocks, my hands still trembling slightly, and park near the town green, a picturesque square with a gazebo and ancient oak trees. Grabbing the book I’d optimistically brought, I find an empty bench beneath one of the oaks, its leaves a riot of red andgold. The words on the page blur. My mind keeps replaying Saint’s thumb on my lips.
Giving up on reading, I pull out my phone. Maybe a mindless scroll through social media will help. But Brenda’s email still casts a shadow, and I’ve banned myself from accessing socials for at least a week. Instead, my thumb hovers over the camera icon. The sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the grass, and the gazebo looks like something out of a movie.
It’s all so perfect. Too gorgeous not to capture.
I’ll record just a few clips. For me to look back on.
I tap the record button.
The familiar weight of the phone feels steady in my hand. I pan slowly, capturing the way the light catches the vibrant leaves, the intricate ironwork of the gazebo, and the distant steeple of a church. It’s purely mechanical at first, framing shots and adjusting focus, as the muscle memory of a thousand videos takes over.
A dog walker ambles past, his golden retriever sniffing enthusiastically at the base of a lamppost. A group of children chase a stray soccer ball across the green, their laughter bright and unrestrained. Another clip of the charming, colorful storefronts across the street, the old-fashioned lampposts.
