Page 133 of Ricardo

"I did not bake, if that's what you're implying," he says. "I did, however, inform Marisa you would be hungry."

“And when, exactly, did you do that?”

“While you were sleeping,” he says, climbing back into bed.

"I woke before you," I say.

He gives me a look. "Hmm."

I open my mouth to ask exactly what he means by that, then close it.

Instead, I look at the tray. The pastries are flaky and golden, dusted with powdered sugar. The fruit is sliced and arranged perfectly. The coffee smells heavenly. There is even a small dish of jam.

It's a feast.

"Thank you," I say, my voice soft.

"You're welcome," he says. "Now eat."

I pick up a pastry. It's light and airy, and it melts in my mouth. A little moan of pure pleasure escapes my lips.

Ricardo’s eyes darken.

"Eat faster," he says. "I was only promised an hour, remember?"

I laugh, a real, genuine laugh that bubbles up from my chest.

"Sex and breakfast," I tease. "I may never leave this bed.”

He watches me, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. "That can be arranged."

I have a feeling this is exactly how he wants me to be here. Happy. Satisfied. A little bit sassy. A little bit challenging.

And, I have to admit, I like it too.

I take another bite of my pastry. “This is really good.”

“It is a family recipe.”

“Your family has a recipe for breakfast pastries?”

“We are a family of many talents.”

The thought of him learning to bake pastries at the hand of a mother or father is so absurd and endearing, I can't help but smile. I think of him teaching Dante.

My smile dims.

He notices at once.

“What?” he asks.

“I was just thinking about your family,” I say.

“And that thought makes you sad?”

I sigh. "I mean Dante.”

Ricardo goes still.