Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
JEMMA
Forty-five agonizingly long minutes have passed since I was in the same room as Luca. I can’t get ready fast enough. My heart is racing in anticipation of our impromptu baking session.
Pushing aside any lingering doubts, I quickly finish getting ready, letting my hair fall more naturally today.
I sift through the contents of my unpacked suitcase, finally selecting the perfect cream-colored sweater—the one that hugs me in all the right places.
Before stepping out of the room, I dab my lips with a creamy pink gloss and brush some mascara over my eyelashes to ensure my blueish-green eyes pop.
Luca’s back is turned to me when I enter the kitchen.
Michael Bublé’s “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” is playing through a small speaker resting on his dining table.
One week ago, any Christmas song would make me cringe, but now my mouth is itching to sing along.
I wait in the doorway, watching him move along the countertop humming along with the festive tune. My heart swells.
I snap a quick photo with my phone, capturing this perfect moment in time. I don’t hesitate and quickly send it off to Gretchen, forgetting about the time difference again.
Jemma: Looks like I’m staying at Luca’s for the rest of my trip. He’s a very thoughtful host. I’ll tell you more later.
My eyes fall back to scanning every inch of Luca from behind. I can’t find a single thing wrong with him. He’s downright perfect. I let a tiny snicker escape, and Luca whips around.
“Is this music okay?” he asks, a hint of concern in his voice.
“It’s perfect.” I gleam. “I’m ready to get my bake on.” I smirk, reaching for my cheeky Mrs. Claus apron perched next to the speaker.
“Whoa there, Santa’s little helper.” Luca chuckles, nudging a plate toward me with a perfectly golden pain au chocolat resting on it. “Eat first,” he insists.
So damn perfect!
A playful grin simmers across his full lips. “I may have snuck out while you were in the shower to grab some pastries from the boulangerie around the corner. But when I got there, I panicked and realized I should have asked what you like. So, I also got a plain croissant too, if you’d rather.”
I love how the word croissant rolls off his tongue—kwuh-sahn.
So fucking flawless!
“I will eat any pastry you put in front of me. I’m kind of spoiled when it comes to baked goods,” I say, drawing the plate closer to me. “Gretchen’s girlfriend is an incredible pastry chef”—I take a bite—“oh, but this is like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. Don’t tell Suzy I said that.” I giggle.
Luca laughs, his single dimple extremely present. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I smile sweetly, gazing out the window and wishing for a bit of snow to fall to make this moment even more perfect.
“Coffee?” Luca asks, cutting in front of my view and nodding to the coffee machine.
“Always,” I respond, falling in sync with the gorgeous man dressed in a Christmas apron and looking fine as hell.
I could definitely get used to this.
When I’m finished with one of the best pastries I’ve had in my entire life—not exaggerating—I slip over to the counter and attempt to ease into my apron, but the straps twist awkwardly in my hands.
“Allow me,” Luca offers, stepping closer, his delicious scent happily invading my nose. He wraps the straps tightly around my waist, and then ties it around my neck, his fingers lingering just a moment too long.
Is that intentional? My heart does a little pitter patter.
We get to work, adding all the necessary ingredients to make a not-so-close-but-I-appreciate-the-attempt version of my mother’s famous Christmas cookies. When Luca’s back is turned, I add my mom’s secret ingredient.
“Just a little sprinkle of love,” I whisper to myself, adding an imaginary dash.
I know it sounds silly, but you can always tell when they’re made with love, which is probably another reason why I haven’t made them.
I know they wouldn’t have turned out. I swear dough can feel vibes, and I haven’t been putting off good ones since I lost my mom.
Making her favorite Christmas tradition without her didn’t feel right until this moment.
Being here in Luca’s kitchen, pushing myself out of my boundaries and attempting to go with the flow feels right.
I know my mom would agree. Plus, look at him in that apron.
That sight alone would draw anyone back to the kitchen.
When it’s time to roll the dough, I nudge him with my hip, smacking the rolling pin from his hand. “I need to do this step. My mother always said, ‘Not too thin, not too thick.’”
I sprinkle a dusting of flour on my rolling pin, focusing intently as I roll out the dough, making it perfect. I lean in for a tree cookie cutter, feeling Luca’s eyes on me. “What?” I whisper.
“You have a bit of flour—” he reaches out, his thumb gently swiping my cheek.
“Oh,” I whisper, embarrassed, but eager for his touch.
“Got it,” he says, letting his magnetic blue eyes linger on mine.
My breath catches in my throat.
Luca leans in and softly says into my ear, “I’m so glad you ran into me.”
My skin tingles, practically vibrating. “Me too,” I say, biting my bottom lip.
“There is something about you—something different. It’s hard to describe.”
I twist my mouth.
“No, it’s a good thing. Like, I know we just met, but I can’t help but feel there’s something bringing us together. Like a connection—pushing us. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I’m crazy.”
“Maybe you’re not.” I bite my bottom lip, leaning into him, begging for him to take me.
Luca reaches around me, hooking his hand around my waist, closing the distance between us.
“But the cookies—”
“Can wait,” he says, cutting me off with a sultry grin.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me effortlessly and places me onto the counter, positioning himself snugly between my thighs.
His eyes meet mine as if he’s staring straight into my soul. “You’ve captured me, Jemma Jones. I’ve never met anyone like you before. Gosh, how do you have me feeling like this?”
I playfully shrug my shoulders, batting my eyelashes.
“J’ai envie de toi,” he says, leaning in, his voice low and wanting, his breath hot on my skin.
My mind wanders to Colette as his hand travels along my inner thigh.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
Eh, fuck it! I nod slowly, quivering breathlessly. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
He cups my chin, pulling me closer until there’s no space left for doubt. His delicate lips meet mine, kissing me gently at first, then more eagerly.
My hands instinctively weave through his hair, fingers tangling in the dark tousled strands—something I’ve craved since the very first moment we met.
His lips move to my neck, then to my ear, nibbling on the lobe as he whispers, “Should we take this to my bedroom?”
Biting my bottom lip, I nod. He scoops me off the counter and takes me into his room.
* * *
My eyes flutter open. I’m in Luca’s bed. I must have fallen asleep.
The room is dark, but I know behind the blackout curtains, daylight is begging to break through. I’m certain it’s still early in the day. The events of our morning unfold in my memories like a sweet dream.
Luca.
I stretch my hand across the bed, my fingers searching for him, but instead of finding him, my fingers brush against a note resting on his pillow.
The man loves leaving notes.
Naked, I wrap a blanket around myself and reach back for the crisp sheet of paper.
Tossing my legs over the bedside, I tiptoe across the cold, wooden floor, the boards letting out soft moans as I move through the room.
With a deep breath, I pull apart the heavy, velvety curtains, allowing the daylight to flood in, illuminating every corner.
I hold the note up to read Luca’s words.
Jemma,
I didn’t want to wake you as you looked so peaceful. I had to step out for a bit. I promise we’ll finish making the cookies when I get back.
Luca
I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. What could be more important than lying in bed next to me, especially after the fiery moment we just shared? I anxiously tug at the blanket wrapped around me, wondering if I made a huge mistake.