Читать книгу A Gingerbread Café Christmas: Christmas at the Gingerbread Café / Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe / Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 16

“So far so good,” Damon says, setting down a tray of empty Chinese soup spoons that moments before had been filled with tuna and mango ceviche.

“Wow, that was quick. Are we making enough?” We’re halfway through, and so far it doesn’t look as though people are slowing down with the food.

Damon winks. “We’ll have plenty, don’t you worry. The noise level goes up every time I go out there, and I hazard a guess that the alcohol consumption is rising right along with that noise. People are starting to dance. I think I saw the mayor doing Gangnam Style…”

“Oh, golly! I can’t wait to see pictures of that.”

Damon’s right. If anything we’ve over-catered. I want to make sure we’re known for quality food, and plenty of it.

“What’s next?” Damon says, standing so close I feel his breath on my neck. Goose bumps break out on my skin, and I blush at the thought of him noticing them.

I clap my hands together. “OK, we need to slice the turkey and cranberry tart, and assemble the choux pastries—”

“With rare beef and horseradish?” Damon interrupts.

“Yes, good memory. Be careful with the choux…”

“I know, I’ll treat it like I would a lady, gentle and lovingly.”

I scoff and roll my eyes at Damon. “Can you get any cheesier?”

He grins back at me and I notice when he’s really smiling he has these teeny tiny little dimples, which are inordinately adorable on a fully grown man.

Damon takes the tart from the oven, and begins slicing it. The scent of roasted turkey makes my mouth water. Before I know it, Damon’s beside me again. “Here, try it.” He slides a small corner of the tart into my mouth. It takes me by surprise and, in a rush to close my mouth lest I stand gawping, I feel my lips brush his fingertips. He leaves them there for what feels like for ever.

“Good?” he asks.

I nod. Unable to speak and not only because I’m chewing.

His expression changes, to something more serious. “You have to try new things once in a while, don’t you think?”

I mumble agreement, and look down to the smoked-salmon blinis I’m making. Damon knows I always try my food before I send it out, so I know he isn’t talking about the canapés. He goes back to the tart, and I let out a breath I’ve been holding.

The evening progresses so fast, I’m almost sad to think we’re just about done.

Damon has a tea towel slung over his shoulder and is busy stacking the multitude of dishes into the industrial-sized dishwasher.

“Glad to see you know how to work one of those,” I say. “You’ll make someone a mighty fine husband one day.”

He takes the tea towel from his shoulder and hangs it on the oven rail. “Oh, yeah? A man who cooks and cleans — you think there’s a market out there for that?”

“Depends — what else can you do that might satisfy a lady?” The words tumble from my mouth before I’m able to stop them. I spin on my heel and head to the bathroom before he can respond. As I reach the door, laughter spills from me. I can’t believe I just said that.