Make It Sweet

“A bit too literal a choice.” I hopped down. “But delicious.”

Glaring, I made my way to the island. His expression grew wary, those broad shoulders stiffening, as though bracing for a fight. I grinned, wanting him off kilter. Lord knew he’d been doing the same to me for days.

“Hockey player”—I started counting off on my fingers—“carpenter, temperamental chef, baker, pastry maker . . .” I stopped before him, overwhelmed all over again by the sheer physicality of him. When I stood near Lucian Osmond, I wanted. “Maybe I should be calling you Renaissance man. Tell me, Brick, do you paint too?”

He rested a big long-fingered hand on the marble countertop. The muscles along his arm shifted as he leaned in a touch. “Yes, but only on pâtisseries.”

Oh hell, he said it in French, with an accent that sounded like sultry sex. My breath hitched. And he noticed. His eyes narrowed, slowly lowering to my mouth, then easing back up to meet my gaze.

“You mad?” A challenge.

“That depends,” I said, way too breathless. Damn it. “Was it a joke to you?”

“Honeybee, I never joke about pâtisseries.”

God. Say it again. Say more. Breathe your words on my skin.

I swallowed hard. “Don’t prevaricate with me, Lucian. Not now.”

With a sigh, his shoulders slumped. “No, it wasn’t a joke. I didn’t say anything because . . .” He waved a hand, as if searching for the reason, then ended up lifting it in resignation. “It felt too personal. Like I was exposing too much of myself.”

“I can see that.” He was an artist. I’d felt his care and thoughtfulness in every bite he’d created. But more than that, it showed in the way his pastries looked, the way he presented them. “You are incredibly gifted, Lucian.”

Faint praise. But I wanted to give it anyway.

As expected, he turned and busied himself by tossing the eggshell into a prep sink. “It’s something I do to relax and keep busy.”

I didn’t want to think of Greg just then, but it wasn’t until I’d started dating him that I got a true taste of a professional athlete’s life. I thought it would be like mine, but acting had lots of periods of waiting around for takes and downtime between roles. Athletes were a different breed. Their lives were extremely structured, filled with days of training, practices, games, interviews, travel. There was little time for rest. Most pro athletes got off on it, the life itself giving them an adrenaline high.

How would it be to have it ripped away before you were ready? Not good.

My heart squeezed, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and just hug. If any man needed a hug, it was Lucian. But he wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t like it.

He shifted his weight, going twitchy in that way of his that meant he was gearing up to be defensive, to close himself off in his own protective world.

You can let me in. I won’t hurt you.

“Did Amalie teach you?” I asked.

His chin snapped up—surprised, I would guess, at my shift away from the obvious subject. “Yes,” he said after a moment, his voice gravelly. He cleared his throat. “Well, Amalie taught me to cook and bread making. You know, the recipes she learned as a child.”

As he spoke, he busied himself by taking out a kitchen scale and flour. There was an ease about him now. “My great-grandfather, Jean Philipe, taught me pâtisserie making. He was a big name in France. His kitchens were filled with veritable armies of assistants, and it was always, ‘Oui, Chef.’ But with me, he was simply arrière-grand-père, who wanted to teach me everything. When we kids summered in France, Anton and Tina would play outside, and I stayed in the kitchen.”

A smile formed on my lips. “I admit I find it hard to picture.”

The corners of his eyes creased in quiet humor. “Mamie wasn’t exaggerating when she said I was small as a kid. Scrawny, really. And shy.”

“You?” I teased. But I could see it. There was something about Lucian that would always be reserved.

He shot me a sidelong look, but his lips curled. “Yeah, me. A scrawny geek. Who wasn’t stupid; if I was in the kitchen, I got fed. A lot. Plus . . .” He shrugged shoulders that were most definitely not scrawny. “I liked it. I always had trouble concentrating unless something took up all my focus. At home, I had the ice. In France, I had cooking, baking, pâtisseries. It relaxes me.”

Personally, the precision and concentration needed to bake would drive me batty. But I understood.

We stood side by side, me far too aware of his warmth. He smelled of honey and sunshine. I wanted to burrow my face in all that goodness and soak it up.

“Will you stop now that I know?” I asked, worried.