“She told me. And that you are an exceptional chef.”
Delilah gave me a happy look, but her attention was focused on Lucian. “I’ve been struggling to find a pastry chef.”
It was clear where she was headed, and Lucian sat back, as though trying to physically distance himself from the whole idea. “I’m not a professional chef.”
“You’re as good as,” she countered. “This is some of the best pastry work I’ve tasted, and I don’t think you even broke a sweat.”
“No, but . . .”
“Dessert plays a huge part on what I’m trying to say,” she cut in. “I need someone who understands flavors and isn’t afraid to stretch themselves creatively. A lot of professional pastry chefs I’ve met with are too rigid or worried about failing.” Her golden eyes narrowed speculatively. “Somehow I don’t think you’d be intimidated by critics.”
Lucian shrugged. “People either like my food, or they don’t. It’s not my problem.”
“Exactly,” she cried out with a little laugh. “You’re a brawler. I need that.”
He made a sound of amusement, but beneath the cover of the table, I saw the way his fingers clenched, like he wanted to run for it. But he didn’t. “I haven’t ever thought about doing something like that.”
“Babe,” Saint murmured, picking up on Lucian’s reluctance.
Delilah ignored him, her eyes wide and pleading. “I get it—this is a lot to pile on out of the blue. And a huge change in lifestyle for you. But would you consider looking over my menu plans and see if it stirs any creative interest for you?”
Lucian blinked, clearly surprised at her fervor. I wasn’t. I’d spent time with Delilah and knew she was passionate about cooking and food. It wasn’t a leap to see that she’d be excited to meet someone with the same sort of talent and passion for food. The funny thing was that Lucian didn’t seem to understand how much of himself he revealed through his work. Delilah was right; he was a fighter. But he was also a thoughtful artist who evoked emotions through his food. His dishes were sensual in a way I didn’t think he realized.
Under Delilah’s unblinking puppy eyes, he relented with a quirk of his mouth, as though he wanted to keep resisting but didn’t have the energy to fight her force of will. “All right. I’ll give you my email, and you can send them over.”
“Yes!” She did a little fist pump that had Saint chuckling and hauling her back against his wide chest. They looked so comfortable together, so much in love, that a small pang of envy pinched my heart. Delilah beamed up at him before giving me a happy, relaxed smile. “He’s much better than Greg, Em. So much better.”
A collective beat went around the table. Delilah clearly knew she’d spoken out of turn, her lips parting in distress. She was quick enough to understand that giving me a look of apology would be too obvious, but I knew she was sorry all the same. Saint, being more sensitive than most people knew, scooped his bride up and, in an impressive display of strength, stood and lifted her with him.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, holding her in his arms. “I have a few dances to claim.”
They left us alone with the specter of Greg hanging over us like a big stink. I launched a preemptive strike. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lucian watched me with a predatory stillness, and I braced myself, wondering how he’d go about getting the information out of me.
“All right.”
His simple acceptance made me feel small instead of relieved. But I held my tongue and fiddled with the rumpled edge of the tablecloth. People got cheated on all the time. It wasn’t their shame; it was the cheater’s. Even so, the memory of Greg between some stranger’s thighs crawled along my skin and settled in my chest. Was I really so easy to leave?
“Somehow, I doubt it,” Lucian said. And I realized that, much to my chagrin, I had asked the question out loud.
I ducked my head and plucked at a stray crumb that had fallen onto the blue puddle of my skirt. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“All right.”
“I’m just a little . . . raw.”
Instinctively, I knew he’d understand that; Lucian was raw about a lot of things too. Silence stretched tight between us, taken up by the laughter of the party around us. Here, at the table, though, we were in our own bubble.
“I think about you.” Lucian’s rough but low proclamation had me lifting my head.
“About me?” But I knew. The force of his gaze told the tale, the way he seemed to strain toward me but sat absolutely still.
Lines of grim determination bracketed his lush mouth, as though he regretted speaking. But then he continued, the words tumbling over my skin in a hot wave. “Think about touching you again, tasting you. I go to sleep with your name on my tongue and your scent on my skin.”