Cece scratches at the bars, clearly annoyed her new best friends are out of reach.
I ruffle her fur as I pass by, spotting more chaos.
Inflatable figures of men leaping. A TV tuned to a farm show of women milking cows.
Hannah barrels past me, hands gesturing wildly, a slew of Italian curses spilling from her lips.
Then—loud squawking filters from the kitchen.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
“Quiet down before I make Hannah cook you for dinner. Goose pie. That’s a thing, right?” a deep voice murmurs.
“Don’t you dare!” I call out. “You touch the geese, the doves unionize. I’ll be their fearless leader.”
I hurry into the kitchen, finding Elias with his back toward me, shirtless with a Christmas hat on his head.
He’s whipping something, muscles flexing, and heat blooms in my belly because from my angle, the rapid arm motions look obscene. I want to see him doing this in another setting while he pins me with his lust-filled eyes.
“You’re staring, wife,” he murmurs, his hand still pumping.
“Yeah, well,” I clear my throat, my voice raspy, “you make quite a sight…whatever you’re doing.”
Elias freezes for a second.
Low chuckles rumble out of him. He rolls his neck and resumes the rapid up and down motions. Then the asshole adds sound effects.
Low grunts, growls, quickening pumps of his hips, which look mighty fine in those gray sweatpants of his.
“Wh-What are you doing?”
He barks out a laugh and turns, his green eyes bright with humor. He’s whisking chocolate cake batter.
“Indulging in your dirty fantasies.” Elias winks. Heat shoots embarrassingly low. “Although…they don’t need to stay fantasies. I’m more than happy to give you a live demonstration later.”
His gaze turns molten. My core throbs.
“Don’t always think with your dick,” I mutter and sit on the other side of the counter.
“I’m thinking with my hands. The dick’s just enthusiastic.”
Cece prances in and winds her lithe body around Elias’s ankles, tail flicking like she owns the place.
“Stay away from the devil, Cece. He’s annoying your mom.”
Elias chuckles as the cat leaps onto the counter and purrs against his chest.
“Traitor,” I mutter. “I treat you better than him.”
“Technically,” he says, looking up, amusement sparking in his eyes, “I saved her life.”
“What do you mean?” I squint then gasp. “The café! Ceceisthe same cat from the café! I knew it!”
He turns his back to the counter and grabs another bowl. “That morning, I saw you making moon eyes at the cat. You wanted to take it home.” His jaw tics. “After I dealt with those assholes and lit the place up, she was there.”
A shiver slides down my spine. Of course that café fire was him. A small part of me still flinches at the bloodshed, but the rest of me knows the violence is part of his reality.
“You saved her,” I whisper.
