14. Catalina #2
I turn into his arms, hands still dusted with flour and grape leaf residue, and press them against the solid plane of his chest. His shirt bears the faint smudges of my work, but he doesn’t look down.
His eyes stay on me, steady and sure, as if the kitchen, the food, and the world itself could disappear, and he’d never notice.
“I love you so much,” I breathe out.
His forehead drops to mine, the brim of his black hat nudging against my hair as his mouth curves in the softest smile. “I know, baby.” His voice is reverent, quiet enough to be a prayer. “I love you more.”
The pot bubbles gently behind us, filling the air with the promise of a meal rich with memories. But Carter holds me even tighter, and in this moment, there’s nothing I want more than this—his arms, his words, the taste of his love pressed warm against my skin.
Carter keeps me anchored to him until the timer on the stove buzzes low, signaling that the dolma is ready.
I move toward the counter, but his hand stays firm on my hip, reluctant to let go even as I lift the lid.
Steam billows out, fogging my lashes and carrying the rich scent of mint, tomatoes, garlic, and lamb.
The grape leaves have softened, tucked together like small gifts waiting to be opened.
I carefully plate them, a wedge of lemon vivid against the dark rolls, and set the dish in front of him. Carter watches me the entire time, that quiet smile tugging at his lips. God, that smile, I never tire of it. I’ll never stop craving it, knowing he saves it just for me.
He picks up his fork but pauses, grinning wider. “Baby, you sure this isn’t too pretty to eat?”
A laugh escapes me, my chest swelling with pride. “Just taste it.”
He doesn’t argue, as he simply takes a slow bite. His eyes slip shut, a hum of appreciation rumbling from his chest. When he swallows, that smile spreads again, broader this time, lighting up his whole face. “Sweetheart… that’s incredible. You made this?”
My throat tightens. “You literally saw me make it, babe.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, still grinning. “I swear, Catalina… you could feed me nothin’ but these little rolls for the rest of my life, and I’d die the happiest man.”
“You said the same thing about my brownies last week.”
He chuckles, softer this time, like he can’t help it. “Yeah, but this is different.” His thumb strokes across my knuckles when he reaches for my hand. “This tastes like… it means somethin’. Like you let me into your heart.”
The lump in my throat burns. I glance at him, and there it is again— that damn smile.
“My nene used to make dolma for every celebration,” I admit, my voice breaking on the words.
His eyes soften, that smile gentling but never leaving. “Then we’ll celebrate everything, baby. Big or small. As long as you’ll let me eat this and watch you smile across the table.”
And just like that, I’m gone and completely shattered by him. By his words, his touch, and his smile that only belongs to me.
I rise and walk around the table, sinking onto his lap without hesitation. His arms wrap around me immediately, his grin pressing into my shoulder before he kisses the side of my face.
The dolma cools on the plates, lemon slices catching the dim kitchen light. But all I can taste is him, his mouth brushing mine, his smile lingering between us like a promise.
Carter’s arms stay wrapped tightly around me, his chest rising and falling against my back as the last bits of steam fade from the dolma.
I shift slightly in his lap, and he looks up at me with that grin.
It softens his entire face, making him look boyish despite the bulk of his body and the shadow of his beard.
God, I’ll never get tired of it. I know he doesn’t hand that smile out freely. It’s mine, and mine alone.
I reach for the plate, pinching one of the dolmas between my fingers, still warm and glistening. “Here,” I murmur, holding it to his mouth.
His eyes flick to mine, playful but softer than I’ve ever seen. He opens obediently, teeth sinking into the roll while his lips brush my fingers. The contact is electric, and when he chews, he lets out a low groan that makes my skin prickle.
“Baby,” he says thickly, still smiling around his words, “you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Good,” I whisper, my throat tight. “Then you’ll know how it feels.”
He holds my wrist before I can pull away, gently kissing each of my fingers. His eyes stay locked on mine, that grin stretching across his face as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“You taste better than anythin’ you cook,” he whispers as he moves from kissing my fingers to the inside of my wrist.
My breath shudders out. His smile lingers as he presses his forehead to mine, as if he can stitch me together with nothing but the weight of his gaze.
The plates remain forgotten on the table. Carter shifts, slipping one arm beneath my knees and the other against my back. In one smooth motion, he stands, holding me against his chest.
I squeak, clutching his shirt, but he laughs, that rare, heart-splitting smile lighting his face as he carries me down the hallway.
“Carter Hayes,” I breathe, still dazed, “the dishes?—”
“Can wait,” he cuts me off gently, mouth brushing my hairline. “Right now, I just wanna hold my girl.”
I bury my face in his neck, my heart swelling until it hurts. His smile presses against my skin when he kisses my hair, and I swear I’ll never stop chasing it — never stop chasing him.