But Emma gaped, as though I was being ridiculous. “Are you joking? Delilah’s right; you’re a hero for doing this.”
My ears felt hot. I shrugged and turned back to Delilah. “I’ll need to go over what you have and run to the market.”
“I’m not putting you out that much,” Delilah said. “You make a list of whatever you need, and I’ll send someone to get it. I’m moving some of my kitchen staff over to assist.”
“All right, then. Let me at your kitchen, and I’ll get started.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emma
“Dearest Emma,” Dougal, my onetime set costumer, drawled, “I have to say I love your new man.”
With that, he popped a cream puff into his mouth and moaned dramatically, placing a hand upon his chest.
I huffed out a laugh. It felt both weird and lovely to hear someone call Lucian my man. He wasn’t, but it was nice to know the people I had worked with day in and day out approved of him. I was proud of Lucian. That much was certain. He’d come through today in a big way, creating not only two towers of croquembouche, swathed in glittering strands of angel-fine spun sugar, but also luscious ice creams paired with delicate butter cookies and mangoes cut to look like blooming lilies.
All of it without breaking a sweat. In truth, when he had sat down at my side just as the ceremony started, he’d appeared both pleased and relaxed.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” I said to Dougal and dipped my spoon into the ice cream.
“I’m going to assume you’re talking about me,” Lucian said at my ear, making me jump.
“For such a big man, you walk on cat feet,” I grumped.
Chuckling at my obvious start of surprise, he took a seat. “Funny, I’ve thought the same of you.”
“That I am surprisingly quiet on my feet for someone so big?”
He gave me a slanted look of reproach. “That you’re good at sneaking up on me.”
One long table that stretched the length of the house had been set up on Delilah and Saint’s terrace. Tea lights and taper candles glittered upon the cream linen tablecloth. A webbing of string lights, fresh white flowers, and greenery had been erected overhead.
Now that dinner was over, people were up and mingling or devouring Lucian’s desserts.
“You really did a great job,” I told him truthfully.
“Hmm.” He looked at my little bowl of ice cream. “You didn’t try the croquembouche.”
My nose wrinkled. “Don’t tell Delilah, but I hate mangoes. Hate them.”
Lucian looked at me for a moment while Dougal watched our interplay with great interest; then he grunted, stood, and walked away.
“Uh-oh,” Dougal said with a laugh. “You’ve upset the chef.”
Had I? He didn’t seem the type to throw a fit if someone didn’t like his food. But he had stalked off. I gave Dougal a helpless look, wondering if I should . . . well, I wasn’t going to apologize, not for that. In fact, if he was off pouting, I just might leave him there.
But he returned before I could think any further, a plate of those pretty caramel-covered cream puffs that made up the croquembouche in his hand. My ire notched a bit higher as he sat down, straddling the chair in that way guys seemed to love doing, and faced me.
“I’m serious, Brick. I don’t like them. And I’m not going to eat one just to placate your—”
“I know you don’t like mangoes.” A faint curl of humor danced on his lips.
“You know?” How? How did he know this?
“I’ve been feeding you this whole time, remember?” With his hot buttered voice, it sounded dirty, illicit.
“I remember.” I sounded far too breathless.
He clearly noticed; that small private smile moved to his eyes. “You never eat the mango slices when I put them in any meals.”
Understanding hit me, and I recalled that while I’d had breakfast fruit trays with mangoes, they’d stopped being included after the second time. Wide eyed, I silently gaped back at him.
Lucian’s long clever fingers delicately picked up a cream puff. “Which is why I made some of these with vanilla-ginger cream.”
Had I been gaping before? My mouth fell wide open. Behind me, I heard Dougal sigh, as if impressed. But I could only stare at Lucian, who looked smug but oddly shy as well.
“You did that for me?” I croaked.
His broad shoulder moved under his jacket. “That, and the combination of vanilla, ginger, and mango mirrored what Delilah and Saint had wanted in their original cake.”
I could fall for this man. Fall hard. Maybe I already had, because my heart was too big, beating too fast. He gave me another small, barely there smile, his pale eyes gleaming with something soft and intent.
“Come now, honeybee,” he murmured. “Try my cream.”
I sputtered out a shocked laugh, and my face flamed, but as he’d commanded, I opened my mouth.
Lucian’s nostrils flared. His hand shook a little as he lifted the cream puff and placed it on the edge of my lips. I opened my mouth wider, my tongue flicking out for that first sweet taste.
Rich, almost nutty caramel, the gentle crunch of pastry, a burst of smooth light cream with a hint of vanilla and ginger spice. Slowly, I chewed, my eyes locked with his, my body tight, and my mouth in heaven. He stayed with me, feeding me another bite, cream getting on his thumb.
My tongue slipped over the blunt end, and he grunted. Hard.
“Jesus,” Dougal said, breaking the spell. “Do that in your room.”
Caught out, we both turned his way. The big bald man with tiny round maroon glasses and a perfectly etched goatee was blushing so hard it turned his brown skin a deep rosewood. “Some of us are here without dates. No need to be taunting us with that prelude to kinky sex.” Dougal fanned himself. “Gods below, I need a drink.”
We watched him walk off, and my face flamed. I’d been two seconds away from sucking on Lucian’s thumb and begging for more. Lucian, on the other hand, was unfazed and simply licked his damp thumb, giving me a wicked look.
“Jerk,” I muttered, making him chuckle, a delicious rumbling sound that was pure male satisfaction.
Flirty Lucian was dangerous. And gorgeous. At some point between making dessert and the wedding, he’d changed into a finely cut smoke-gray suit with a pure-white shirt and a silver-blue tie. The combination of colors turned his skin bronze and his eyes like old sea glass.
He paused and lifted his dark, thick brows in inquiry. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Because I want you.
I dragged a fingertip through an errant drop of cream on the plate and licked it up, enjoying the way he watched with intense interest. “Can’t be helped, Brick. You really wear that suit.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was embarrassed by the praise. His voice came out in a rough rumble. “You seemed surprised.”
I was not surprised in the least. The man could make a purple velour tracksuit look like a good idea. “I’m used to you in jeans. I wasn’t sure you owned a suit.”
He chuckled, as though quietly amused. “Honey, I have dozens of them. All handmade.” He sat back, showing off the way his perfectly cut suit lined his long lean body. “I’m a hockey player, after all.”