by Peggy Jaeger
Her mop of champagne curls bounced as she shook her head with the violence of a seizure. “Another stupido word. Closure. The only thing that ever closes is a coffin.”
I winced and shook my head. “Ma.”
She beat a fist against her amble breasts in the vicinity of her heart. “Your heart was broken, bambina. Shattered. To lose the thing you love the most in the world, the thing you’d lay down your life for, you don’t recover from that. Ever. It’s always with you.”
“I know. It is. But I need to do this, Ma. I need to make this cake. I need to know I can do it. That I’ve got the strength to.”
“Of course you have the strength. You’re a San Valentino.” Her lips pursed again and her brows tugged forward in that arrogant, haughty way only a true daughter of Italy can pull off to perfection. “You can do anything you tell yourself to.”
A moment ago she’d told me I’d never be able to forget the tragedy of my past, and now she was saying I could do anything I wanted if I put my mind to it.
Irony, thy name is Ursula San Valentino.
I’d had enough emotional discourse for the day, so I quickly finished plating the pies, brought them back to the dining room and told everyone I was begging off.
“I need to catch up on a little work, and then I’m gonna get to bed early,” I said while I doled out the dessert plates to my siblings.
“You work too hard, Reggie,” Petey said right before he shoved almost the entire slice of apple pie I’d given him into his mouth.
“You need an assistant,” ’Carlo said. “Someone to take the slack off.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I like working hard. An assistant would just be in the way.”
I caught the quick raised-eyebrows look that passed between my sisters-in-law. Before they could start up with the dating talk and their thoughts about my needs again, I beat a hasty arrivederci.
I love my family to no end. I’d do anything I could for them, take a bullet, lie down and die for them, help in any way I can.
But sometimes I just needed a break from them.
Twenty minutes later, after taking an Uber back to my place, I shrugged out of my clothes and into my favorite comfort clothes: flannel pajamas.
Seated at my home office desk, I booted up my computer, planning to get a head start on the supply ordering I’d need for the next few weeks. Connor’s sketch and the estimated bill I’d drawn up for the cake sat on my desk next to my order pad and a half dozen other bills and orders I needed to upload.
I opened my email, then scanned the picture of Santa’s Toy Land I’d finished and attached it to the bill. After writing how the cost might change a little, I then electronically signed it and hit send. It was much easier to contact him via email than to call his cell phone. This was, after all, a business transaction. I didn’t call any other clients unless there were problems that needed immediate attention, so I wasn’t going to start doing so now.
Not a minute later a response alarm beeped on my screen.
Why are you working on Thanksgiving? Connor’s email response said. I thought you’d be out celebrating the day with your family.
Already did, I typed back. My parents eat early so everyone can go their own way afterward without it getting too late.
So, you’re home now?
Yup. Lots of catch-up work needs my attention.
I could use someone with your work ethic in my organization.
I smiled at that. Don’t be too impressed, I wrote back. You know what it’s like when you own your own business. The buck—literally—stops with you. Speaking of, you answered my email right away. I figured you’d see it when you got back to work.
I’m in my office now, just like you. My folks like to eat early, too. On my way back home, I figured I’d stop and get some work done. I’ve got a new app coming online next week, and there are still some kinks that need to be worked through.
I fingered the business card he’d given me. The company address was down near Battery Park, so where had he been coming from?
When you’re the boss, the work never ends, I typed.
Ain’t it the truth?
It dawned on me that this conversation was the longest one I’d had with a guy in quite some time. Trixie’s words drifted back to me. A girl’s gotta get some, sometimes, you know?
Boy, did I ever.
The lie I’d told my mother about my never being lonely jumped into my head.
I wondered if Connor was…attached. I didn’t think he was married because what wife would want him to go into the office on a holiday, but you never know. Some women don’t mind that their husbands work all the time. I opened a new window and typed his name into a Google search.
And the second I did I X’d out of it.
Madonna. What was I doing? Connor Gilhooly was a customer, not a potential anything else. I needed to remember that. I had no business trolling the Internet for info on him.
Quickly, I typed, Speaking of, receipts are calling my name. Enjoy the rest of the holiday.
I thought that would be it, but I was wrong.
Hey, before you go, he typed, can I come in some time to taste different flavors for the cake? The guy who works for me? The one who mentioned the wedding he was at? He says I should try different ones to make sure the salted caramel is the option I want. So. Can I come by sometime? Try a few out?
This wasn’t necessarily an unusual request from a customer. For brides and their grooms, I usually put together a few choices and then had them come in to see which flavor profile fit their wedding the best.
Before I could respond, he sent another email. I can come by tomorrow sometime if you’re not busy. I close the business on Black Friday so everyone can get a jump on their holiday shopping.
I wrote back that I was closed tomorrow too, and then we decided on the best time for him to come around.
I’ll see you a little before eleven, then.
Okay, see you then, I wrote back.
I waited a few moments to see if we were done.
I thought we were, but then my email alarm dinged again.
So, did you have a good Thanksgiving? Eat lots of turkey with all the fixings? I bet you baked some stuff. Pies. Cookies. And I bet they were…delicious. I’m getting…hungry…thinking about them.
Madre di Dio. What was this? Flirting, or just casual conversation? I hadn’t been in the dating pool for so long I had no yardstick.
I decided it was just polite conversation.
I’m Italian, so the fixings were pasta-based. Haha. But yes, I did bring pies. Apple, pumpkin, and cherry. And a separate mince pie for my brother to have for himself. He’s the only one who likes it.
Seriously, how do I wrangle an invite to your house for dinner?
If only.
Did you have a good day with your family?
Yeah, but your food sounds better!
I wouldn’t argue with that because it was probably true. My mother is many things—dramatic, opinionated, loyal—but she is also a fabulous cook.
Getting paged, so I’ve got to sign off, Connor wrote. See you tomorrow. I can’t wait.
I replied that I’d have some good choices for him and then hit send.
The notion to try that name search blew through my head, and I shoved it back out again. Call me old-fashioned—and with my family, was it any wonder I was?—but it seemed a little creepy to find out information about someone that way. I guess I’m old school, but when I want to know something, I ask, not initiate a cyber search.
And I wanted to know about Connor Gilhooly. A lot. Was he married? Had he ever been? Did he have kids? Was he engaged? Living with someone? Or was he unattached and enjoying the single guy lifestyle? I wanted to know why he looked nothing like his Irish name suggested and everything like a son of Italy.
A million other questions ran through my head as I snuggled down under Nonna’s quilt a few hours later.
The one question that kept repeating itself, thoug
h, was what did those fabulous lips taste like and would I ever find out?
Chapter 3
Regina’s tips for surviving in a big Italian family: 3. Accept you will always be a child in your parents’ eyes.
There’s something so soothing and calming about the whir of an industrial mixer.
I’d actually slept in until six a.m. the morning after Thanksgiving. Waking refreshed and clearheaded, I was happy the bakery was closed for the day. A few of my cake decorators might be in at one point to catch up on, or get ahead of, the big holiday orders, but they usually didn’t show up until after lunch. I had the entire morning to myself, a rare and pleasant treat.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my workers, and since many of them are family, that love doubles and even triples. But it was nice not to have to deal with any warring or arguing personalities or listen to any gossip.
I washed, dressed in an old pair of sweatpants and a St. Rita’s girl’s softball T-shirt, and donned my apron ready to make some cake magic. For Connor’s tasting, I decided on three flavor profiles that would go well with the Christmas theme, so I got busy. While the cakes were baking, I made the frosting and then started working on decorating a wedding cake for Sunday.
Piping buttercream frosting, adding dragées—tiny, hard sugar balls painted with edible silver paint—along the borders of the tiers, and swirling individual flowers and leaves down the sides were mindless activities for me. Truly. I could probably pipe an entire four-tiered cake in my sleep.
I heard someone knocking at the service door and, looking up at the clock on the opposite wall, saw that it was a little after eleven a.m. I’d been working nonstop for over four hours.
“Sorry,” I said when I unlocked the door to find Connor standing there, his hair dusted with fat, wet snowflakes, his high cheekbones and the tips of his ears cherry-red from the cold air. “When did it start snowing?” I stepped back so he could enter.
“About a half hour ago. It’s really starting to come down, too. I slipped a few times on the sidewalk.”
“Give me your jacket.”
He shrugged out of it and handed it over. Something spicy mixed with citrus hit my nose and shot a swift sense of longing through my entire system. Connor was busy swiping the snow from his hair, so I lifted the material and took a fast sniff. Gesu. If his coat smelled this delicious what would his naked skin be like?
Trixie’s comment about needs shot to the front of my mind again.
I shook my head to clear it and hung the coat up on a wall peg.
I turned back to him, determined to shove those lust-filled wonderings back down. The thought died on my lips when I got my first real look at him.
The silver in his hair sparkled with moisture, turning it the color of gunmetal. He took a quick swipe through the temples to slick it back and then wiped his wet hands on his jeans. As they had before, my fingertips tingled with need to run them through the thick pelt and clutch on tight.
The day we’d met he hadn’t taken his coat off, so I’d only seen him in his outerwear. But through his coat I’d made out wide shoulders and long legs.
Now, he stood before me in a black V-neck pullover covering a white T-shirt, in jeans that some time ago had been blue but were now faded and worn in all the stress points, and his physique was put on perfect display for me to drool over.
And drool I did. I actually slammed my lips back together when they popped open so saliva wouldn’t ooze down my chin.
Mamma mia.
With shoulders wide as an open doorway, his torso tapered to a trim waist the pullover barely covered. The bottom edge of the T-shirt peeked out from underneath it like a little surprise. His jeans were slung low, sans belt, and dropped in one straight continuous line all the way down his legs. White lines fanned out from where the pants creased at the top juncture of his muscular thighs, and one knee was a needle and thread away from needing a patch job. Leather loafers that looked broken in and butter soft completed him.
If there ever was a more perfect-looking man, I hadn’t seen him.
“Hi,” he said, a crooked grin filling his face and sending little sparks of joy down my insides. “It smells amazing in here.” His lifted his chin and inhaled. “If the samples you have for me taste as good as the aroma in this place, I may need to move my offices close by.”
His grin spread cheek to ruddy cheek, and I swear on Nonna’s rosary beads, I almost came undone and jumped him right there and then.
“Have a seat, and I’ll go get the cakes.” Gesu, was that my voice? It sounded like I’d just run around the Seven Hills of Rome in the heat of August without a break.
I walked into the industrial refrigerator in my workroom and slapped a hand to my forehead. If I could have reached it, I would have ticked the back of my head like Pop does when he’s annoyed and wants to smack some sense into us.
Get a grip, Regina. The man’s a customer just like any other customer.
Oh, yeah? another part of my brain—the one controlled by my raging needs—countered. No other customer makes your heart race, your nipples stand at attention like Mussolini’s foot soldiers, or your thighs tremble.
Basta. Enough.
I put the round mini cakes I’d made on a tray, took a deep breath, and then walked back to the workroom.
One look at him seated at my worktable, scrolling through his phone, and the needs part of my brain sent a shiver of lust down my spine, landing square in what my mother refers to as “girly bits.”
I cleared my throat.
Connor looked up, grinned again, and shoved his phone into his front pocket.
“These are three flavors I thought might work well with the concept for Santa’s techy toy land,” I said.
“I can’t wait.” His grin turned wicked, and I lost my footing as little as I walked toward him.
With a slight tremble in my hand, I speared the first sample with a fork and handed it to him.
“Vanilla sponge cake infused with lemon liqueur and a lemon-based buttercream. This one is usually more a summertime cake, but”—I shrugged—“I think it tastes good any time.”
He split off a piece of the cake, held the fork up to his nose, and took a whiff. “Smells amazing.”
I watched as he placed the fork on the tip of his tongue, then slid the cake into his mouth. It was next to impossible to keep from moaning out loud when his tongue flicked out over his lips and swiped at the errant frosting across them. I had to swallow—hard—three times just so I could keep the feral sound contained within me.
“This is amazing.” He lifted his gaze to mine, the truth of his words in his eyes. “Light and fluffy. Just the right combination of sweet and tart.”
I nodded. “That’s the point.”
Instead of eating the rest of the sample like all my other customers routinely did, he put the dish down and said, “What’s next?”
“A ginger spice cake with maple and vanilla cream filling, iced with vanilla-bean-and cinnamon-infused whipped cream.”
He repeated the same actions again, splicing off a piece of the round. Right before putting the fork to his mouth his gaze lifted to mine. With a grin my nonna would have described as looking like un diavolo—a devil—he said, “This smells like breakfast.”
I laughed. “That’s the maple syrup. I only use the best from Vermont.”
He slid the fork home, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I imagine this is what breakfast tastes like in Heaven.”
He opened his eyes again and, like before, after one taste, put his fork down. “And last?”
“Devil’s food with crème de cacao liqueur, chocolate mousse filling with anisette, and dark chocolate buttercream. It’s a huge hit with my chocoholic customers.”
“Include me in that list.”
This time when I gave him the dish our fingertips connected. I couldn’t use the excuse of dry weather today as why a visible spark exploded when we touched. It was wet outside and in, as I kept the workroom humidified to p
revent the different kinds of frosting and icing mixtures I used to decorate from drying out and cracking.
No. This little spark was all sexual chemistry and stopped my heart for a moment.
Connor felt it too—how could he not—because he jumped a bit in his chair, his gaze connecting with mine, his brows kissing above his eyes.
Without a word said, he took the plate with one hand and circled his other around my wrist.
I knew he could feel my pulse dancing a wild tarantella against his fingers, just like I could feel his warm breath wash over me as he exhaled deeply. All my senses jumped like when one of my grade school nuns clapped a wooden ruler against the desk to get everyone’s attention. The stormy colors in his eyes were almost obliterated by the ink of his pupils as they dilated. His breath hissed in, and his grip, though gentle, was solid and secure as it held me prisoner, and mio Dio, I was a willing captive for sure.
This man, about whom I knew nothing but his name, stirred emotions up from deep within me that had been dormant and buried for years. With just one touch, I felt more alive, more connected, more present, than I had for longer than I could remember. Maybe even ever.
As his gaze took a lazy, determined stroll from my eyes down to my mouth then back up again, all I could think was this, this, is what Trixie meant when she said a girl had needs.
I did.
Gesu, did I.
In spades.
Did I move closer to him in that moment, or did he reel me in? I’ll never know who moved first, but before I could blink, my free hand slid across his pullover, my fingers luxuriating against the softness of the fabric, and stopped to rest on his shoulder. Warmth spread from my fingers up my arm and through my entire body just from touching him.
With our eyes open, each watching the other, our breaths mingled and joined.
The sweet and spicy aroma of maple and ginger clung to him, but I knew he’d be more delicious than any flavor I could concoct.
