The girl scribbles on the cups, then asks for our food order.
“Two brisket kolaches,” he responds.“And a Nutella crepe for my wife.”
“Moretti.”My mouth is watering, and I can almost taste the deliciousness, but it’s not something that I would normally allow myself to indulge in.
“As I said…” He leans close so that he can murmur directly in my ear.“You’ll burn off the calories.”
I’d argue or protest, except he’s left me tongue tied and turned on.
We carry our beverages to the back of the café.Of course he doesn’t sit at the bar facing the wide plate-glass window.Instead he guides me toward a small table tucked near the wall, where he can watch both the entrance and the street outside.
A mafioso through and through.
The coffee is incredible—deep and strong enough to wake every nerve in my body.Even he seems impressed by the quality of the espresso.And he would know.
When he leans back in his chair, I consider him.“How long has it been since you were in a café?Or done something relaxing like this?”
He’s quiet for a few moments before responding.“A few years ago On an island in the Caribbean.”
Freedom, I note again.The cost of our lifestyle.
“I’ll take you there.”
I’m quiet.More talk of a shared future.
Within a few moments, the food is delivered to us.
The crepe is warm, and when I cut into it, the melted hazelnut chocolate spread oozes onto the plate.
Dante doesn’t touch his plate.
The moment I take the first bite, I close my eyes.
“Oh my God.”
Dante’s gaze sharpens.
Not on the crepe.On my mouth.
Something dark and distinctly sinful flickers in his eyes.“I could watch you eat all day, every day.”
“This…” I blot my mouth with a napkin.“It’s so good.You have no idea.”
His gaze drifts slowly from my lips down my throat and back again.The look on his face tells me exactly what he’s imagining.
My cheeks burn hotter.
After lingering much longer than I’m sure he’s comfortable with, we carry the last of our coffee out into the warm afternoon and continue down the street, wandering in and out of little shops filled with antiques, art, and handmade goods.
One store stops me in my tracks.
A Christmas shop.
Even in the Texas heat, the inside glows with twinkling lights and trees covered in ornaments.
For a moment, I’m transported back to my childhood, when my mother was alive.She loved the holidays, and she insisted we put up the tree every year on November first.
Even though my father insisted we could hire someone to help, she always refused.Instead, she dragged all of us into her preparations.
