“How do you know how to make them?”
“My family stayed on one of the Great Lakes one summer when I was a kid. We made s’mores over the fire every night.”
“S’more skills, huh?”
“Yup. Do you have any graham crackers and chocolate?”
“I know we have chocolate bars because the kids love them, and we have some crackers for cheese, sweet and salty.”
“The sweet ones will do nicely. In the kitchen, I assume?”
“That's right.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
I can't help but watch as she walks away, her form illuminated by the glowing fire. Her short-clad hips sway fromside to side as she saunters across the lawn, her ever-present ponytail swinging.
It takes effort to drag my gaze away.
Of all the problems this woman has caused in my life, proving to be off-the-scale sexy has got to be the most unexpected.
But she’s more than just sexy. She’s the whole package. Funny, smart, kind, a little mysterious, and as she reveals more and more of herself to me, I’m finding myself in deeper than I ever meant to be.
It’s not just attraction anymore. It’s something that’s starting to feel a lot more real.
A moment later she returns, her arms heavy laden with packets of crackers and bars of chocolate.
“Did you clean the entire kitchen out of supplies?” I ask, eyeing her stash.
She grins at me. “I think so.” Laying the food items out on a nearby table, she addresses the group. “Who wants to make s’mores? So much better than just plain old toasted marshmallows.”
She's instantly surrounded by eager teens, and I hang back, watching her. She only just met these kids today and already she has a rapport with them. She's at ease, as though she deals with moody, sometimes challenging teenagers every day of her life. And they seem to like her, too. The way she and Cedric got the giggles while working on their tent was… well, it was adorable.
“Once you've toasted your marshmallows, bring them back here and we’ll stick them between the crackers and chocolate. See?” She demonstrates how to slide the stick from the toasted marshmallow, held between the crackers and chocolate. All eyes are riveted on her. “Et voila! A s’more. I should taste test this, right?” she asks, and I laugh along with the others.
She takes a bite, and her eyes roll back in her head as she savors the sweetness. She grins around her mouthful. “Delib-fuff!” she pronounces.
And there's that word again, springing into my mind.Adorable. Adorable and fun and kind and witty and clever and gorgeous and hot. So. Freaking. Hot.
Who knew someone talking with their mouth full of s’more could hit me right in the chest?
I don’t want to want this woman, but I do, and it’s getting harder not to act on it.
I make some s’mores along with the rest of the group, aware of how Fabiana is constantly on hand to help anyone who needs it, assisting kids when their marshmallows won't slide off their sticks, showing them just the right amount of toasting to melt it so it turns to liquid goo inside the crackers and chocolate.
Once everyone has had their fill, we sit around the campfire telling stories until it's time for the kids to head to bed. Fabiana disappears to check on Pippa, and Rocco, Dante, and I make sure everyone is comfortable, unrolling sleeping bags, providing pillows, and all the things you've got to do to get a bunch of teens high on sugar off to sleep.
“She’s not what I expected,” Rocco says once the last of the kids is tucked up in their sleeping bags.
“What do you mean?”
“In her articles, she comes across as snarky and rude, sometimes simpering, but I think she’s seeing something different in you.”
“What’s she said?”
“Only that she can see you’re not the guy she’s reported on all these years. Do you trust her?”
If Rocco had asked me that question only a week ago, my answer would havebeen a resoundingno. I would never have trusted the Fabiana Fontaine I knew from her articles. Not in a million years.
