Her kitchen took on the spicy tangy aroma of cured meat while I tried to figure out the shift in direction the conversation had taken.
“Miss Flora doesn’t drink. Antoine and Jacques are happy to trade what they make for the bitters or small-batch cordials and infused spirits I make. Antoine loves my Campari and my cherries too.”
Charlotte nodded, and I waited to see which way things would go next.
“You know a whole different part of the city than me. It wasn’t the touristy bits—even though it is muffuletta and pralines and bread for po’ boys. It’s almost like the origin story for the tourists’ favorites. All of it was genuine. There was nothing put on or artificial.”
“Antoine can put on a show for tourists in season, but you’re right. The things they make are authentic, and they are some of the most genuine people I know. There is a truth to what they do that cuts through all the artifice.”
It hadn’t been what I’d set out to share with her. My goal hadn’t extended beyond more time, but I was grateful and a little humbled that’s what she saw.
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“It’s my pleasure, cher.” I reached out to smooth a finger down her cheek. I wouldn’t push for more, but I couldn’t be this near to her and not touch her. Not anymore. Not when it felt like we got closer every minute we spent together. “Let me open the wine and then we can make muffuletta.”
“You just like saying the word, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s the perfect almost nonsensical word. It’s like it was put together for its sounds alone. It can’t possibly mean anything.”
“It has to mean something.” She dug in her bag for her phone and started swiping, her fingers a blur over the screen.
If her hands moved that fast, I knew it was only a fraction as fast as her mind worked.
“Here...it looks like it was named after the Sicilian bread or maybe a baker. Not as exciting as I’d hoped.”
“Either way, the muffuletta aren’t going to make themselves. Grab the bread and a serrated knife. The one with all the tiny teeth,” I said when she looked puzzled. “You really don’t cook, do you?”
“I do now.” She stuck a hand on her hip and thrust out her chin in a way that made me want to kiss her. “I can make beignets and café au lait. And pretty soon, I’ll be able to make muffuletta.” She pronounced it with an exaggerated Italian accent. “That’s easily double my normal repertoire.”
“Fair point, cher.”
This time I didn’t try to resist. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her inclose, watching her eyes widen in surprise before softening in anticipation. I paused for the length of a breath, giving her time to tell me no before slanting my mouth over hers and claiming her lips.
She tasted like sugar and red wine, a mixture of the bite of caramel and the tannin from the Barolo. Rich, complicated, and almost as interesting as the woman herself. I slid my hand into her hair, palm against her scalp, and tightened my grip, catching her answering gasp with my mouth. Losing myself in this woman was as easy as breathing. Automatic, and almost as necessary.
The hard part was holding onto the scrap of control that let me break the kiss and pull back—just a few inches, just enough to keep from gripping her hips and lifting her onto the counter so I could wedge myself between her legs and rock against her, desperate for the thing I couldn’t have. The thing I promised myself I wouldn’t push her for.
“Come on. Let’s put the sandwiches together and then you can add them to your list.”
“List?” She blinked, looking confused.
“Of things you can cook.” It was entirely too satisfying knowing my kiss flustered her as much as it did me.
I inhaled, drawing control in with the air, pausing just long enough to press my lips to her forehead for a quick moment before turning back to the packages. Laying one of the loaves of bread flat on the counter, I placed my hand on top to hold it steady while I sliced it in half with the knife Charlotte handed me.
“Here,” I said, moving out of the way and reaching for the container of olive salad. “We need to smear both sides with this.” I handed her a spoon and started to unwrap the paper deli packages. “Mozzarella goes on top of the olive salad on one side and provolone on the other.”
I dealt cheese slices like cards, covering the olive-soaked bread. We worked as a team, filling the sandwich with the rest of the meat.
“Can you grab a cast-iron skillet?” I asked, carefully putting the top on the sandwich.
“We’re cooking it? I thought today was assembly only.”
“You’ll see.”
She gave me one of those looks that promised she’d never let me live it down if I misled her, but she bent to grab an enormous cast-iron skillet from the cabinets.
“All right, what’s next?” She handed me the brand-new-looking skillet and crossed her arms, waiting for me to deliver.
