Chapter 11 #3
“Thank you.” I took the bag, careful not to jostle any of the nuts loose.
I bit into one of the pralines, crunching through the sugary caramel to sink my teeth into the toasty meat of the pecan.
I barely managed to stifle a groan of pleasure and when I glanced up, Miss Flora was watching me, clearly pleased with my response.
Beside me, Ford shook his head, either in an attempt to clear it or in response to the other woman’s comments. I couldn’t tell. When he reached for a praline, I shifted my body to shield the bag from him. Behind the counter, Miss Flora laughed again.
“Well, I’m wounded, and your faith is clearly misplaced,” said Ford, feigning outrage.
“Don’t be silly. You know she’ll let you have most of them, but some things are worth waiting for. Surely you’ve learned that by now.”
“That I have.”
His words took on extra meaning, and I offered him the bag, wanting to get rid of the nuts along with the weight of whatever else his comment implied.
He plucked a praline from the waxed paper sack and popped it in his mouth, unaffected by the internal conflict I wrestled with. Figures.
“These get better every time.” He pressed a few bills into the woman’s hand and snagged another praline.
“If that’s true—and we both know it is—maybe you shouldn’t wait so long before you come see me again.”
“I won’t. I promise.” He crossed his heart with his finger, and she shook her head.
“See that you don’t. And Charlotte, make sure you’re not a stranger either. Don’t wait for him to bring you back. You can’t rely on a man to give you what you need.”
“You’re going to give Charlotte the wrong impression. She’s going to think you don’t have any use for men.”
“Don’t be silly. Your woman can make up her own mind. And I don’t have a use for most men, my Henri excluded. He was one of the good ones. You might be too,” she said, tipping her head to the side to consider Ford. “Eventually.”
“I don’t know whether to be wounded or proud.” Ford placed his palm briefly over his heart before reaching for another praline.
I bit into another sugared nut and tried to figure out how I felt about the your woman comment, and what if anything to do about it.
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CHARLOTTE WAS QUIET for the ride back to her place, and I worried I’d pushed her too far with all the stops.
I hadn’t intended for things to take on such a stroll down memory lane quality.
That part just happened, but I couldn’t say I minded it either.
Miss Flora was right. Charlotte was special.
I’d never gone to her shop or any of the other places we visited with another woman.
I’d never wanted to share that kind of time.
It wasn’t the experience—not exactly. I loved the sensuality of being with a woman.
Food was an obvious extension of that. But going from place to place, visiting people I’d known most of my life, people who’d known me as a boy and seeing myself with Charlotte through them, made the differences between the way I felt about her and the way I’d felt about other women that much clearer. There was no comparison.
Of course, none of that mattered if I scared the woman off as soon as I realized what she meant to me.
I parked the car in front of her house, grabbing the bags from the backseat, along with a bottle of Barolo I’d brought from home. Charlotte still held the rumpled sack of pralines. We’d made a dent in it, enough that she’d been able to roll the waxed paper tight over the pecans.
“Everything okay, cher?” I asked, following her up the path and through the front door.
“Why was Miss Flora the only one you paid?” She set the pralines on the counter and started to pulled the paper deli packages from the bag.
Her kitchen took on the spicy tangy aroma of cured meat while I tried to figure out the shift in direction the conversation had taken.
“Miss Flora doesn’t drink. Antoine and Jacques are happy to trade what they make for the bitters or small-batch cordials and infused spirits I make. Antoine loves my Campari and my cherries too.”
Charlotte nodded, and I waited to see which way things would go next.
“You know a whole different part of the city than me. It wasn’t the touristy bits—even though it is muffuletta and pralines and bread for po’ boys. It’s almost like the origin story for the tourists’ favorites. All of it was genuine. There was nothing put on or artificial.”
“Antoine can put on a show for tourists in season, but you’re right. The things they make are authentic, and they are some of the most genuine people I know. There is a truth to what they do that cuts through all the artifice.”
It hadn’t been what I’d set out to share with her. My goal hadn’t extended beyond more time, but I was grateful and a little humbled that’s what she saw.
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“It’s my pleasure, cher.” I reached out to smooth a finger down her cheek. I wouldn’t push for more, but I couldn’t be this near to her and not touch her. Not anymore. Not when it felt like we got closer every minute we spent together. “Let me open the wine and then we can make muffuletta.”
“You just like saying the word, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s the perfect almost nonsensical word. It’s like it was put together for its sounds alone. It can’t possibly mean anything.”
“It has to mean something.” She dug in her bag for her phone and started swiping, her fingers a blur over the screen.
If her hands moved that fast, I knew it was only a fraction as fast as her mind worked.
“Here...it looks like it was named after the Sicilian bread or maybe a baker. Not as exciting as I’d hoped.”
“Either way, the muffuletta aren’t going to make themselves. Grab the bread and a serrated knife. The one with all the tiny teeth,” I said when she looked puzzled. “You really don’t cook, do you?”
“I do now.” She stuck a hand on her hip and thrust out her chin in a way that made me want to kiss her. “I can make beignets and café au lait. And pretty soon, I’ll be able to make muffuletta.” She pronounced it with an exaggerated Italian accent. “That’s easily double my normal repertoire.”
“Fair point, cher.”
This time I didn’t try to resist. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close, watching her eyes widen in surprise before softening in anticipation. I paused for the length of a breath, giving her time to tell me no before slanting my mouth over hers and claiming her lips.
She tasted like sugar and red wine, a mixture of the bite of caramel and the tannin from the Barolo.
Rich, complicated, and almost as interesting as the woman herself.
I slid my hand into her hair, palm against her scalp, and tightened my grip, catching her answering gasp with my mouth.
Losing myself in this woman was as easy as breathing. Automatic, and almost as necessary.
The hard part was holding onto the scrap of control that let me break the kiss and pull back—just a few inches, just enough to keep from gripping her hips and lifting her onto the counter so I could wedge myself between her legs and rock against her, desperate for the thing I couldn’t have.
The thing I promised myself I wouldn’t push her for.
“Come on. Let’s put the sandwiches together and then you can add them to your list.”
“List?” She blinked, looking confused.
“Of things you can cook.” It was entirely too satisfying knowing my kiss flustered her as much as it did me.
I inhaled, drawing control in with the air, pausing just long enough to press my lips to her forehead for a quick moment before turning back to the packages.
Laying one of the loaves of bread flat on the counter, I placed my hand on top to hold it steady while I sliced it in half with the knife Charlotte handed me.
“Here,” I said, moving out of the way and reaching for the container of olive salad. “We need to smear both sides with this.” I handed her a spoon and started to unwrap the paper deli packages. “Mozzarella goes on top of the olive salad on one side and provolone on the other.”
I dealt cheese slices like cards, covering the olive-soaked bread. We worked as a team, filling the sandwich with the rest of the meat.
“Can you grab a cast-iron skillet?” I asked, carefully putting the top on the sandwich.
“We’re cooking it? I thought today was assembly only.”
“You’ll see.”
She gave me one of those looks that promised she’d never let me live it down if I misled her, but she bent to grab an enormous cast-iron skillet from the cabinets.
“All right, what’s next?” She handed me the brand-new-looking skillet and crossed her arms, waiting for me to deliver.
I laid a piece of deli paper on the muffuletta and set the skillet on top of that, pressing slightly to make sure it wouldn’t slide off.
“Don’t tell me there’s some kind of waiting period before we can eat,” she said, peering doubtfully at the skillet sandwich tower.
“What would give you a silly idea like that?”
“Precedent.” She leaned against the counter and took a sip from her glass of wine.
I tried to at least pretend to divide my attention between the food and her lips.
“It would be better if it sat a bit so the olive salad could soak into the bread, but...” I raised my hand at her groan of protest. “It will be delicious right now. Plates?”
I knew where they were. But if she was getting them instead of biting her lip and watching me like I was combination puzzle and praline, I stood a better chance of keeping my hands to myself.
At least, that had been the plan until I watched her stretch to get the white French country plates from the cupboard.
Her body made a long gorgeous line as she reached up and her skirt raised high enough to reveal the backs of her thighs.
And shift my thoughts to how easy it would be to slide my hand along all that creamy flesh.
To cup the curve of her ass and pull her back against me.