Page 57
“I can absolutely measure flour.” I lean across him for the measuring cup, and my elbow connects with the open bag, causing it to tip over.
A white cloud erupts, drifting through the sunlight. It blinds me for a split second, and as the air slowly clears, we’re left staring at the disaster around us.
Nearly every inch of the kitchen slab is covered in white, along with much of Marco’s face and clothes. His stunned expression—complete with side-eyes and a gaping mouth—is so strange that I start laughing, the rumble raking through my chest.
Marco goes very still before looking down at the flour coating his shirt, then back at me. After a dumbfounded pause, he reaches calmly into the bag, and before I can react, dumps a deliberate handful of flour onto my head.
“Oh my god.” I gasp, and my laughter dissolves into surprise as I slap at the bun I’d tied my hair in last night in an attempt to shake out the flour.
An undignified but wildly satisfying battle ensues. Flour ends up everywhere—on the counter and the floor, in my hair and in his eyelashes—and by the time we’re done, we’re both breathless and grinning.
This, without a doubt, is the most fun I’ve had in years.
We clean up in a loose, clumsy way, still chuckling. Marco moves past me to wipe the counter, and I turn at the same moment. We’re close enough that the tiny scar above his eyebrow comes into focus. His hand braces against the counter beside my hip.
Rough palms clamp my waist and hold me against him as his mouth takes mine like he’s been starving for it. I grab the front of his shirt and drag him deeper into the kiss.
A startled sound breaks against my mouth, and a primal instinct inside me answers it. My hands slide into his hair, where the flour coats my fingers like powdered sugar. He tastes like coffee with a bitter edge underneath.
“We shouldn’t.” I huff a breath against his lips.
“We shouldn’t,” he agrees.
Then he kisses me again.
He backs me into the kitchen island. The corner digs into my hips through my jeans, but I don’t care. His hands roam across my ribs, then my waist, then the curve of my ass. Each touch leaves a trail of heat that obscures my reason.
He pulls back enough to look at me, his chest heaving and his lips parted. Flour patches are on his eyebrows, his neck, and his forearms.
His gaze scans over me. “You’re covered in flour.”
“So are you.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “We should shower.”
My heart stutters.
“Separately.” He pauses. “Or not.”
My heart flips.
“Not,” I insist, though I don’t recognize my own voice.
His eyes darken.
“Lucia—”
“If you’re going to talk me out of it, don’t.” I erase the distance between us. “I’ve already spent every hour since we arrived trying that. I’m tired.”
He studies me for a long moment, and the silence is filled only by our breathing and the distant waves.
“You’re sure.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”
He moves faster than I expect. One arm slides behind my knees, the other curls around my back, and then I’m suddenly in the air, cradled against his chest. His wounded shoulder bears my weight, and a hiss slips through his teeth.
“Your shoulder—”
