“Breakfast,” he announced with cheer.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, taking the basket from him.
“Girl, do not, under any circumstances, say no to the house kitchen.” He wagged his brows. “Trust me; you will be missing out.”
Given the delicious aroma of fresh bread wafting up through the lid, I didn’t doubt his word. “Would you like to share some? I can make coffee.”
“Sure. But there’s coffee in the basket. The house doesn’t approve of drip brew.”
“Wow.” No wonder it weighed a ton.
I let him in, and together we emptied out the contents onto the kitchen counter. Along with French press coffee and fresh rich cream, there was a pot of thick honey yogurt, a plate of glistening fruits—melon, honeydew, and cherries—a small jar of strawberry jam, and sweetly scented rolls.
“Pain aux raisins,” Sal informed me. “Amalie’s favorite.”
“They smell delicious.” I leaned in a little, lowering my voice. “Don’t tell her, but I hate raisins. So you can have at them.”
“Oh, I won’t tell Amalie a thing,” Sal promised solemnly. “But the house has a way of finding out what you like.”
“You say that like the house is its own entity.”
“When it comes to the kitchen, it might as well be.”
I laughed and started to set our goodies onto the silver tray provided. “Does she have a temperamental chef?”
“Very temperamental. But you needn’t worry about him. If your paths happen to cross, I’m certain he’ll be a big pussycat around you.”
“No thanks. I deal with enough egos in my profession.”
Sal clearly struggled with a grin, but he merely picked up the tray, and I grabbed the silver coffee carafe and pretty porcelain cups.
We took our breakfast out onto the terrace and set it on the little café table. Part of me wanted to avoid this spot with its perfect view of the pool, but that was cowardly. Besides, he wasn’t out there now. I tried not to feel disappointed. Or guilty.
“So . . .” Sal took a bite of melon. “What are your plans for today?”
“To do absolutely nothing.”
“Good plan.”
I tasted the yogurt and nearly moaned. Jesus, everything here was spectacular. Rich and creamy with just a hint of honey, it melted on my tongue and woke my taste buds up. A sip of coffee with hints of chocolate and caramel had me sighing in appreciation. “On second thought, I definitely need to fit in some exercise, or soon I won’t fit my clothes.”
“Blame Amalie’s new chef. I’ve put on ten pounds this month alone.” He patted what appeared to be a small potbelly hiding under a billowing silk blouse with a vivid-blue-and-purple pattern.
“Is that Pucci?” I asked, then resumed devouring my yogurt.
“You know your fashion.”
“Alice, one of the costume designers, would talk nonstop about fashion.” My good humor flitted away on the breeze as I realized I had no idea when I’d ever see her again.
Sal must have noticed, because he looked me over with kind eyes. “You miss the show when the season comes to the end, don’t you?”
He didn’t know I was never going back. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. That didn’t mean I couldn’t admit to some things.
“Yes. Every season, I never think it will be hard . . .” My eyes misted, and I blinked fiercely. “It’s ridiculous, really. An actor’s life is moving from role to role. We do our job, go home . . . but we all have such great chemistry that I . . . really do miss them when the season is over.”
“Just because all good things must come to an end doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to mourn them.”
“You’re right.” Lord knew I was in mourning.
“Besides, you’ll be back on set next year.” Sal spooned some fruit onto my plate. “Here, try the melons. They are fabulous.”
The melons were, in fact, fabulous.
After Sal left, insisting on taking the plates and basket back to the main kitchen for me, I curled up on the deep little love seat by the empty fireplace and tried to read. But my mind kept wandering, distracted by thoughts of thick thighs and tight abs.
I didn’t know what the hell was the matter with me. I’d seen naked men before. Hell, Saint had the body of a god, and we did endless scenes together half-naked without me even blinking. He was just scenery as far as I was concerned. Greg the asshole had a spectacular body as well, one I appreciated just fine—well, before I found out it was inhabited by a cheating dickhead.
But this hot, pulsing memory of Lucian naked disturbed the hell out of me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to run my tongue up the neat valley between his abs to collect those drops of water, put my mouth on his tight nipple and flick it, make him groan and shudder.