“Only when the taste of it is on your mouth.” Then he leaned in closer and used his tongue to remove any remnants of the sweet stickiness from my lips.
“Ooh,” I practically breathed out when he was finished.
He laughed. “You’re sugar drunk, Ballerina Girl.”
“Yes.” A cloud of sweet-smelling smoke blew out of my mouth. “That’s it. Too much sugar.”
I was still lost in the lingering effect of the kiss when a dog came sniffing at the meat pie I had locked in my left hand. He was quick, but I was hungrier, apparently, and I snatched it up before he could steal it. He was short and barrel-chested, with a serious underbite, giving him another disadvantage.
“Waldo!” I said, kneeling down to pet the dog on his head, keeping my pie high above his head with the other. “Where’s—”
“Scarlett?”
Waldo’s owner, Santiago Rodrigo, ran up, snatching the dog’s leash. He was Paul’s soccer coach. He was considered new eye candy in town, and most of the mothers seemed to have suddenly taken an interest in their children’s extracurricular activities. He was from Barcelona and had a thick Spanish accent, along with thick black hair and dark eyes.
He had made a point of talking to me the few times I went with Violet to watch Mary at Paul’s games and practices. Being an athlete, it was easy to fall into conversation with him. He had remarked that he enjoyed one of my shows in Barcelona.
After the twins were born, Brando started to go to Paul’s practices and games instead. Which was fine by me; I caught up on some housework or reading. Sometimes both. The house was usually quiet during those times.
“Waldo,” Brando muttered.
I gave him a narrow look.
“I apologize,” Santiago said. “I live in a condominium above the shops on Front Street.” Santiago nodded his head toward the building. “And I was taking him for a walk. His leash slipped out of my hand, and here he is. But I must take him back. Dogs are not allowed.”
“Too bad,” Brando said.
I would’ve given him a dirty look, but I didn’t want to make it obvious. What was his problem?
Santiago nodded toward him. “I see you at Paul’s practices and games. You are married to Violet?” He held his hand out. “I am Santiago Rodrigo, Paul’s coach. We have not met.”
I thought for sure Brando and Santiago had met at some point and would’ve been introduced. He chatted with all of the parents, and Brando enjoyed soccer. Santiago had played pro in Spain.
From what Violet had reported, Santiago had competition when Brando and his brothers entered the field. Women of all ages were signing their kids up for soccer, some borrowing other people’s kids to make it work.
“Brando Fausti.” Brando took his outstretched hand. “Scarlett is my wife. Violet is a friend.”
The two men let go, and Brando slid an arm around my shoulder. I almost palmed my face and shook my head. Let the pissing game commence.
“My mistake.” Santiago grinned at Brando. “I assumed Guido was her husband. Or that she did not have one.”
Brando showed no outward signs of irritation at Santiago’s answer, but I knew he had taken offense.
Brando returned the grin. “You assumed wrong.” He lifted my hand and kissed my wedding rings.
Point for you, Fausti.
“So it seems.” Santiago nodded. “Do you play football?”
“Not much,” Brando said.
“Brando was in the Coast Guard,” I said, smiling up at him. “He was a Rescue Diver in Alaska. One of the elite.”
Brando kissed my rings again, and this time his grin was sincere. He was touched that I had brought it up. If he only knew how damn proud I was of him.
“Well, that is something. Perhaps we will meet on the field some day and in the water. Make the odds equal.”
“Perhaps,” Brando said.
