Chapter 1
Minutes and Mayhem
She’s humming.
Soft. Light.
Unaware of the sound slipping free.
The smell of cinnamon hits me before her perfume does; jasmine, vanilla…her.
I round the corner to the kitchen, and there she is.
My Dea.
My Vasilisa.
My light.
“Dea, what are you making?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Sugar hangs thick in the air. Flour dusts the pink apron she insisted I buy—matching ones, for when we bake together.
Dio, help me, I’d never wear a pink apron, but for her?Anything.
She glances up, those bright blue eyes wide when they meet mine.
“Cinnamon rolls,” she says, as if it should be obvious.
She turns in a little circle, brow furrowed. Looking for something.
I swipe a paper towel, catch her chin gently between my fingers, and wipe her nose. Then I steal a kiss from the corner of her mouth, tasting cinnamon and sugar.
“Are you making them,” I murmur, “or eating the dough?”
She rolls those gorgeous eyes. “I have to sample, Santo!”
Exasperated, she twirls again.
“What are you looking for?”
“My phone! I want to send Luna a picture, and I can’t find it.”
I reach into her apron pocket and pull it free. “This one?”
Her face lights up. “Yes!” She reaches for it, but I hold it just out of reach.
“Santo Amato,” she warns, arms crossing over her chest. “Give me my phone.”
“No,” I say, dark and low. “I walk in here…nojoy, nogreeting, nokiss.”
She sighs, lips curving. “Sorry, Santo.” She crooks her finger, coaxing me in.
I lean down. She cups my face with flour-dusted fingers and presses a kiss to my lips. I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her close, deepening the kiss until I can taste the cinnamon on her tongue.
She gasps, a soft sound, half sigh, half moan. When I pull back, her eyes are hazy and full of thatsacredawe I live for.
“There,” I murmur. “That’s my girl.”
