Page 33 of Santa's Pretty Helper

“Hey, sis,” says Eric, looking up from where he’s chopping a cabbage at lightning speed. “Looking good.” Eric’s been working for Gabe ever since the restaurant opened. He sets the knife down and walks towards me, wiping his hands on a towel tossedover his shoulder. He gives me a hug and then gently touches my belly.

“Hey little guy,” he says. “Uncle Eric can’t wait to meet you.”

He kicks, my entire stomach jumping with the movement, and I can’t help but wince.

“He’s either going to be a soccer player or a karate champ,” I say. At the sound of my voice, Gabe looks up and sees me, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. He takes his pan off the heat and slides the shrimp onto a plate, passing it to another member of the kitchen staff before making a beeline for me.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, bending down and kissing me quickly on the lips. His hand immediately goes to my stomach. “Hey, buddy.” Another kick in response.

“Babe, could you make me some mushroom risotto?” I ask, looking up at Gabe. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper now, and a few strands of white are coming in around his temples. He honestly looks sexier now than he ever has. “I have a craving.”

Gabe’s mushroom risotto has been my biggest pregnancy craving. He could make me a vat of it and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Of course. I pre-made a batch earlier, let me just finish it off and warm it up for you.”

My mouth is already watering as I nod. “Oh, thank you.”

“Why don’t you go have a seat and I’ll bring it out to you?”

I nod and give him another quick kiss before I head out to the table Darcy set up for me. It’s a small two-seater by one of the windows, and it’s my favorite spot in the restaurant. I watch the pedestrian traffic go by, people bundled up against the cold, some carrying shopping bags and parcels. A woman walks by pushing a baby stroller, and I notice that it’s the same one my parents bought for us a few weeks ago.

I people watch and day dream about the future until Gabe appears, bringing me the food he’s made. My mouth waters as he sets it down, and my mind flashes back to the night he got fired, when he’d brought the food out to our table himself. I’d had no clue he was already in love with me then.

“Miss,” he says, and I can tell he’s thinking about that night, too. “Your mushroom risotto.”

“Thank you,” I say, and dig in. I’m never not hungry lately. Gabe sits down in the seat across from me, our feet rubbing gently together, and we chat about life. About the baby and the nursery that’s almost finished. About the restaurant. About Christmas and family. About my upcoming mat leave from the bookshop I work at with Madison. The conversation flows as easily as warm water, just like it always does.

My plate is almost clean when I notice the way Gabe’s looking at me. I know that look. It’s a hungry, almost predatory expression that promises toe-curling pleasure.

“Come with me to my office,” he says, standing up and offering me his hand. I let him help me up and we make our way to the back of the restaurant, where Gabe’s tiny office is located. The space inside is taken up almost entirely with a filing cabinet, a desk with a computer on top, and a shelf lined with awards and news articles about Gabe, from both before and after opening the restaurant.

“Why are we in here?” I ask, playing coy.

“Because watching you eat my food makes me hard. Come here, wife.” He pulls me into his arms, my giant belly taking up space between us. His kiss is slow and sensual, languid and teasing. “Tasting my food on your tongue is almost as hot as tasting my come there,” he says, and I’m instantly wet. I arch up, kissing him back. I huff out a frustrated sigh because my belly’s in the way.

“I’m as big as a house right now,” I say, and Gabe slides his fingers under my chin, tilting my gaze up to his.

“You’ve never been sexier.” He kisses me again and then helps me up onto his desk, falling to his knees before me. “And I’m going to worship your gorgeous body until you know it, too.”

And he does, making me come with his mouth, not letting up until I’m a shaking, spent mess. I’m pretty sure the entire restaurant hears me scream his name, and I don’t care.

Gabe Mitchell is mine, and I’m his. Forever.