Even if watching her eat would eventually kill me.
She gripped the sides of the table, as though trying to hold back from prematurely reaching for her plate. Greedy girl.
My dick approved. Far too much.
Calmly as I could, I served her a slice, adding some raspberries, and then served Sal so I’d have something to do with my hands. They felt too big and unwieldy as it was, made clumsy by a five-foot-six slip of a woman.
All my efforts to ignore Emma were a sham. The second she lifted the spoon, I sucked in a breath, watching her pink lips part, and caught a glimpse of her tongue. The whipped-cream confection slipped into her mouth, and she moaned.
The sound coiled around my cock, palmed my balls with hot hands. I nearly moaned too. I knew the taste in her mouth, how smooth that cream was on her tongue. That was my cream. I made it. My hands gave her that pleasure, whether she knew it or not. Her moans were because of me.
The rush of it washed over me, and I was a little dizzy.
She slid another dollop in her mouth. Slowly. Savoring it. Her lids dipped down. Lashes fluttered as she sighed.
Sweet holy hell.
Silence fell over the table, and Emma stopped, looking around self-consciously. She licked away a lingering golden pastry crumb from the corner of her mouth—she was definitely going to kill me. “Sorry. It’s just really good.”
Satisfaction washed over me, as clean and cool as fresh ice. I wanted to take that spoon from her hand and feed her myself. Make her moan again and again. Shit.
Grunting, I helped myself to a cardamom cake. If I ate a piece of the brest now, I’d probably come in my pants.
“Where did you buy these?” Emma asked Mamie.
“Oh, I didn’t buy these,” Mamie said. “They’re homemade.”
“Really?” Emma popped a raspberry into her mouth. “You’re a wonderful baker.”
I shot Mamie a quick warning look, so she merely sipped her coffee and hummed vaguely. Yeah, I was a chickenshit for not wanting Emma to know she was eating my food. But there it was; I’d become . . . shy about it.
Sal watched us the whole time, obviously finding my discomfort funny as hell. But instead of pushing me under the bus, he threw me a lifeline—probably because he lived on the grounds and didn’t want to have to sleep with one eye open.
“Mamie is multitalented.” He set his empty coffee cup down and reached for a champagne flute. “She’s the one who first taught me how to sew.”
“This is true,” Mamie said. “He was this cute little boy who used to find his way into my dressing room to play with my gowns while his father was here for work.”
“Papi is Amalie’s business manager,” Sal explained.
“One day,” Mamie said, “Salvador accidentally ripped a Halston.”
“Ugh,” wailed Sal, covering his face with his hands. “It was a vintage gold lamé evening gown.”
I had no idea what that was, but I guessed by Emma’s expression of pained sympathy she did.
Mamie laughed fondly. “He was so upset about it I taught him how to mend the tear.”
“Never looked back.” Sal grinned. “She gave me the Halston for my sixteenth birthday.”
Emma rested her chin on her hand. “And did you wear it?”
“Sadly, I wasn’t quite ready to brave that. By the time I was, I couldn’t get the damn thing past my thighs. It’s still hanging in my closet, though. You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”
Emma laughed again. And I stuffed another macaron in my mouth. I’d probably leave the table with a food headache, but it was either cram my face with sweets or stare at Emma like a moony-eyed fool.
“I was happy to have someone with whom to share my love of fashion,” Mamie said. “Alas, my Titou was not interested.”
“How would you know, Mamie?” I took another macaron. “You never offered.”
“Well, now I just might.” She slapped my arm playfully.
The corner of my mouth curled. “Too late. I am offended and no longer interested.”
“Petulant boy.” Mamie chuckled before wrinkling her nose at me.
Emma watched us with keen eyes. “You two are very close,” she said when our gazes snagged.
“Even before my parents passed, we were close.”
If Mamie was surprised I’d told Emma about my parents, she didn’t show it but gave me a fond, misty-eyed look of affection. I might have softened over that look. But then I remembered her meddling. I shot Mamie a sidelong glance. “She used to read me bedtime stories when I was little.”
Mamie became very interested in the clunky cocktail rings on her fingers. Had she honestly thought I’d forget her little ruse to get me here?
I turned my attention back to Emma. “My favorite was The Boy Who Cried Wolf.”
Emma’s lips twitched, a light entering her eyes, and I found myself responding to it as though that lightness spilled into my chest, expanding the hollow cavern. I fought a smile, fought it hard, because all I wanted to do was grin wide and laugh with her.
“Scared me straight,” I said blandly. “Never misled another poor soul again.”
“Oh, all right,” Mamie snapped with humor. “Consider me chastised. Now, shut up and eat your cake. There’s a good boy, eh?”
A chuckle escaped me before I could rein it in. But it felt good. It felt better when I caught sight of Emma, her lips parting as if in wonder, blue eyes sparkling. And then she smiled at me, as if I’d made her day simply by laughing.
The smile speared me, dead center, and for a second, I didn’t know how to breathe. The only other time I’d felt this way was while flying over the ice, weaving through defenders, and, with a sweet little flick of the wrist, sending the biscuit into the basket.
Grief and loss crashed into me, cold and dark. It knocked the laughter right out of me, and I found myself lurching to my feet, rattling the dishes in my haste. Blood rushed in my ears; my throat was sore and tight. My voice sounded as from a great distance when I mumbled a lame “Excuse me. I need to get to work.”
And then I got the hell out of there, knowing they were all staring, knowing I’d made a fool out of myself. I just couldn’t find the strength to care at the moment. One thing was certain; I needed to stay far away from Emma Maron.
Mamie hunted me down an hour later. It wasn’t hard to find me; I was in the kitchen. With hockey out of my life, the kitchen had become my refuge, the one area that still felt familiar and pure. Here, I was in total control. Here, I was still king.
I didn’t look up from my task of reaming a Meyer lemon. There was a certain satisfaction to be had in annihilating fruit.
“What are you making?” she asked, coming up alongside the long marble countertop. Given that Mamie’s father, my great-grandfather, had trained me, she knew exactly how much baking meant to me and how much I had needed to get back to it. The day I’d arrived back at Rosemont, beaten and defeated, she’d all but shoved me into the kitchen and told me to get to work. I’d been cooking for her and Sal ever since.
“Tarte au citron.”
Mamie glanced at the twelve small tart pans I had prepped. “Petite tartlets. Delicious.”
I grunted. I’d make the tarts and then start on the dough I planned to proof overnight in the fridge. I’d been experimenting with breakfast rolls, and the method seemed to work well. Then again, dough was a fickle mistress. What worked one day might not work another.