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“For how long?”
“Until it rises.” I shape the dough into a ball, lifting it into an oiled bowl. “About an hour.”
“An hour? What do we do until then?”
I cover the bowl with a towel, deliberately slow. “I can think of a few things.”
“Brandon—”
“Like cleaning this mess.” I gesture at the flour-covered counter. “What did you think I meant?”
“The same.” She clears her throat. “What else?”
“Sure, cupcake.” I tug her closer by my shirt she’s wearing.
“Brandon?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft but steady. “For distracting me.”
I tighten my arms around her. “Someone has to save my bathroom tiles from your stomach acid.”
She pinches my arm, leaving a floury fingerprint. “Way to ruin the moment.”
“What can I say? I’m talented that way.”
The dough rises slowly in its bowl, like hope building in my chest. Like the way she’s slowly rising too, learning to trust herself again. Learning to trust us.
One day.
One day, I’m going to spoil you with the best food.
I hope you’ll wait for me.
THIRTY-TWO
NAOMI
The hostess smiles knowingly and gestures toward our corner table, where Brandon waits in his signature all-black suit. No tie, because he knows exactly what that does to me.
These Thursday dinners used to be about keeping up appearances. Now they’re about something else entirely.
“Hey, cupcake.” His dimples deepen as he stands, eyes sweeping over me with obvious approval. “You look beautiful. Love the dress.”
The ‘hi’ and ‘thank you’ die on my tongue as he seizes my jaw, brushing his lips with mine, soft at first, then with more intent. The familiar scent of his cologne, spicy and warm, wraps around me, and my fingers curl into his shirt, steadying myself against the rush of heat flooding through me.
A throat clears nearby. Marcus. “Would you like to order?”
I forgot we’re in public, forgot about the people around us, forgot about everything except the way his thumb strokes my cheek.
Brandon eases back, his forehead pressing gently against mine. “I missed you today.”
My cheeks burn, but I can’t help smiling. “I missed you too.” This is new for us, this open affection and casual admissions.
He pulls out my chair, and I slide into my seat, his hand lingering on my shoulder, before he sits across from me.
“We’ll start with the tuna tartare and the grilled octopus with that brown butter sauce Elliot does. The Pinot Noir. For mains…” Brandon’s eyes lock with mine. “The cedar plank salmon for the lady. That okay?”