Page 24 of Sinful Mafia Santa

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the dining room table, which is larger than the kitchen counters in some restaurants I’ve worked in. “Start with some orange juice. I’ll be out in a minute.” And he disappears into the honed-maple kitchen.

Something smells amazing. There’s coffee and the mouth-watering scent of hot bread baked with chocolate and the smell of melted butter and something that has to be mushrooms—chanterelles, I’m pretty sure. I’ve spent the past week eating three meals a day in the finest restaurants available in New York City, but my stomach feels like it’s been empty for years.

I sip at my orange juice and call into the kitchen, “Can I help?”

“Nope.” Gage appears with a thermal carafe and a napkin-covered basket. He sets down the latter and pours me a cup of coffee before heading back into the kitchen.

Of course, I peek. The basket is filled with pain au chocolat, each flaky rectangle oozing twin pools of rich, dark filling.

Gage comes back with two plates. He puts one in front of me—an egg-white omelet, stuffed to perfection with frilly crisp-edged mushrooms. As I lean forward to take a deep sniff, I catch a whiff of nutty gruyere cheese.

“Nobody ever cooks forme,” I say.

“I expected as much.”

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“The omelets? I’ve been loading up on protein since before the Aces called me up.”

I remember him blending viscous shakes in the Beach Avenue kitchen. He and Logan pounded down three of those things a day. “And the bread?” I say, helping myself to one of the treats in the basket.

He grins. “You can get anything delivered in New York City. I thought I remembered you like a good pain au chocolat.”

“You remember everything,” I say, licking a dollop of chocolate off my thumb.

He stares at my mouth as I swallow. “I do.”

Something flips strong and hard inside me.

“Eat up,” he says. “We have places to go. People to see.”

I make short work of my breakfast but Gage still eats like he’s being chased by a freight train. I wonder if he actually chews his food before he swallows.

“Let’s go,” he says, when I lift the final flake of pastry off my plate with my index finger.

I stand beside the table. “You cooked. I’ll do the dishes.”

“The dishes can wait.”

“Let me at least run water over them.”

“I’ll do that,” he says, frowning at my feet. “Go look in my closet. There’s a pair of flip-flops in there somewhere.”

I look out the window at the glistening city. “It’s December in New York City. I’m not going anywhere in flip-flops.”

“You won’t be wearing them very long.”

There’s another one of those flips, despite the ballast of an excellent breakfast. I very much want to know what Gage is planning.

He refuses to say anything, though, just sends me back to his closet. Thereisa pair of flip-flops, buried in the back, but I’m pretty sure I’ll break my neck if I try to wear them.

Instead, I change back into my dress. I have my bra, but I’ll have to go commando. At least my Louboutins feels familiar on my bare feet.

Gage frowns when I return to the living room. “I preferred your other outfit.”

I shrug. “You take what you can get.”

“I do. Don’t I?”