Page 57 of Diary of a Mafia Princess

“Who were you expecting?”

“Virginia. We were baking a cake, since all the ones we tried at the wedding place were awful. But we didn’t have one of the ingredients. She just ran out to the store to get more.”

I leaned over and stuck my finger in the chocolatey batter sitting in the mixing bowl.

I got it into my mouth before she could smack me.

“That’s not done! It’ll taste terrible.”

“It’s good actually. Try some.”

She shook her head. “I need to be able to fit in my wedding dress.”

I screwed up my face. “So, what? You aren’t even going to eat the cake you’re baking?”

“Definitely not. I already tried a handful this morning.”

“Why make it then?”

She shrugged, leaning back against the refrigerator. “Because Virginia is the only other woman in this house, and she suggested she would bake me a cake since I hadn’t liked any of the ones earlier. And I asked if I could help.”

I frowned at her. “My father wouldn’t like it. You being in here. Working like you’re one of the staff.”

“Virginia said that too. But I talked her into changing her mind. Do I have to do the same to you?”

I stole another fingerful of batter. “I don’t give a shit what you do, princess.” I sucked my finger clean, though it reminded me of the way my father had done that after having his finger inside her.

Heat flushed down my spine at the thought.

She shoved me away from the bowl. “Stop doing that! There’s going to be no batter left at this rate! I don’t know how you’re even eating that. It has no sugar in it.”

It must have had something else sweet then, because it didn’t taste bad at all. I held a chocolate-drenched finger out to her. “Try it.”

“Eww. I’m not licking it off your finger, Luca.”

But something flared in her eyes too. I didn’t know if she was remembering what my father had done to her as well. Or if it was the thought of my finger in her mouth that had her flushing pink like that.

And even though I’d just been warned away from her, I had to know.

I moved closer to her. “Try it, Nyah. Try your own damn baking.”

She backed up, laughing, shaking her head. “Not a chance.”

I held the finger out like it was a weapon. “You’re not a real chef unless you try your own food. How else will you know if it’s good? I could be lying to you.”

“Knowing you, you probably are.”

It was a fair enough statement. I wasn’t exactly known for being truthful. I cornered her, enjoying the way her brown eyes lit up, full of a playful, happy energy I hadn’t seen from her yet.

If this was what a trip to the ice rink and trying some cake did to her, maybe I would have to do that every day. Smiling looked good on her.

Almost as good as the expression she got when I was pissing her off. That scowl, all sass and attitude, was hot.

Apparently, everything about her was hot. Including the way she looked in that fucking apron.

All I could think about was getting her down here, late at night when the rest of the house was quiet.

And having her wear that apron and literally nothing else.