Page 28 of Fall Surprises
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Cake won't decorate itself." I gestured to the array of black roses spread across the counter, some still drying, others already shimmering with gold. "You?"
"My brain won't shut off." She crossed to the counter, studied my work. "These are incredible, Gus. They're so dark and dramatic. How are they so detailed?"
"Practice. Lots of practice." I picked up another petal, showed her how to curve it just so. "Want to help?"
"I'll probably ruin them."
"Impossible. Here." I handed her a small brush and a pot of edible gold dust. "Just brush this along the edges. Light touch—you want it to look like the gold is catching light."
She took the brush, her fingers brushing mine. That simple contact sent heat racing through me.
We worked side by side, the only sounds our breathing and the soft clink of tools on the counter. She asked questions about technique. I explained the process. Flour dusted her sweatshirt. A smudge of gold dust marked her wrist, glinting in the kitchen light. The domesticity of it—creating something beautiful together in the quiet hours—felt more intimate than it should.
"I meant what I said earlier," Sam said after a while, not glancing up from the petal she was shading. "About love requiring growth and courage."
"I know." I set down the flower I'd been working on, turned to face her. "I heard what you were really saying."
"Did you?" She set down her brush.
"You were talking about us."
"Maybe." A small smile curved her lips. "What's happening here, Gus? This was supposed to be a job. You were supposed to be an annoying obstacle I had to work around."
"And now?"
"Now you're the best part of my day. The person I look for in every room. The reason I'm not freaking out about this disaster of a wedding party." She laughed, but it sounded almost sad. "I'm leaving in two days. This is terrible timing."
"The worst," I agreed. "But I don't think timing gets a vote here."
"What does?"
"What we want." I moved closer. Her pupils dilated. "What we're brave enough to choose."
Her breath hitched. "And what do you want, Gus?"
You. In every way. For longer than two days.
Before I could answer, she reached for another sugar flower, her finger catching on a delicate petal. Frosting smudged across her fingertip. She started to bring it to her mouth—an automatic gesture—but I caught her wrist.
"Let me," I said, my voice rough.
I brought her finger to my lips, held her gaze as I slowly licked away the frosting. Sweet buttercream and skin and the sharp intake of her breath. Her pulse raced under my thumb where I held her wrist.
"Gus..." It came out as a whisper.
I kissed the pad of her finger, then her palm, feeling her tremble. "Tell me to stop."
"We can't—" But she swayed toward me instead of pulling away.
"Can't what?" I slid my hand into her hair, felt the silky strands slide through my fingers. "Can't give in to what we've both been feeling since you arrived?"
"You said I was an uptight city woman." But her hands were fisting in my shirt, drawing me closer.
"You called me an arrogant ass." I traced her jawline with my thumb. "Doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about doing this every damn day."
"This?" She barely breathed the word.
