Lucian’s smile was wry and tight. “You’re Amalie’s guest. I have no right to look at you like that.”

I had to disagree there. But he didn’t give me a chance.

“Thing is, the more I get to know you, the more beautiful you are to me.”

Oh. Hell.

My breath left in a gusty sigh, my heart swelling painfully within the confines of my chest.

“I like who you are, Em,” he said, as though the confession was torn from him, and he didn’t quite want it to be. But he didn’t blink, didn’t flinch as my lips parted with surprise. I swallowed thickly.

“I like who you are too.”

At that, Lucian turned his head, giving me his fierce profile. He was clearly as uncomfortable with praise as I was. Too bad. He needed it. Needed to know that he had value. But we’d been spotted, and our delicate privacy was broken as Delilah walked over.

“Luc!” Delilah all but squealed with a beaming smile. “I need to give you a big ol’ hug.”

She was beautiful in her lace-and-silk sheath wedding gown, with orange blossoms in her hair. The only nod to color was the red of her lipstick and her high heels, the sight of which had made Saint smile so brilliantly and wide during the ceremony it had sent a pang through my heart to see it.

Now, she came up to Lucian, who immediately got to his feet and accepted her hug with grace.

Saint followed. While he wasn’t grinning like Delilah, he seemed pleased and happier than I’d ever seen him. Marriage agreed with the man. As soon as Delilah finished hugging Lucian, Saint stuck out his hand and shook Lucian’s. “Great work, man. Seriously.”

“It was a pleasure to help,” Lucian said, looking almost as uncomfortable with their praise as he had with mine.

Delilah pulled out a chair to sit, but Saint beat her to it, taking it for himself, then pulling her into his lap. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and leaned into him with a sigh. “I’m beat.”

Saint chuckled. “We haven’t even gotten to the dancing you insisted on.”

“Oh, we’re dancing, Mister. Don’t even think of trying to slink out of that.” She eyed the plate of cream puffs Lucian had set on the table. “I just need a tiny rest first.”

Lucian saw the direction of her stare and moved the plate over a little. “Want one?”

“Yes!” She grabbed a puff and took a huge moaning bite before feeding Saint the rest. “So good.”

Delilah eyed Lucian. “You never baked professionally?”

“No. Just at home. Or for my teammates.”

“His great-grandfather was Jean Philipe Osmond,” I put in, hoping with Delilah’s chef connections, she’d know who that was. “He taught Lucian.”

Lucian slid me a look of reproach, but he didn’t seem truly put out, more like surprised I was puffing him up. I arched my brow, as if to say, “What? You’re being modest.”

Delilah’s eyes went wide. “No shit? Holy hell.”

“I’m missing something,” Saint said.

She turned and carefully wiped a tiny crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Jean Philipe Osmond was one of the greatest pastry chefs in the world. I have two of his cookbooks. They covered him for a semester in culinary school.”

Saint’s brows rose. Mine did as well.

I turned to Lucian. “You didn’t tell me all that!”

He shrugged. “I said he was a big deal.”

“You are the master of understatement—you know that?”

He flashed a quick grin that made my pulse stutter.

“Well, that helps explain it.” Delilah peered at Lucian and then took another cream puff. “I don’t know how much Emma told you about me, but I’m opening a restaurant in a few months. Just down the road.”

“She told me. And that you are an exceptional chef.”

Delilah gave me a happy look, but her attention was focused on Lucian. “I’ve been struggling to find a pastry chef.”

It was clear where she was headed, and Lucian sat back, as though trying to physically distance himself from the whole idea. “I’m not a professional chef.”

“You’re as good as,” she countered. “This is some of the best pastry work I’ve tasted, and I don’t think you even broke a sweat.”

“No, but . . .”

“Dessert plays a huge part on what I’m trying to say,” she cut in. “I need someone who understands flavors and isn’t afraid to stretch themselves creatively. A lot of professional pastry chefs I’ve met with are too rigid or worried about failing.” Her golden eyes narrowed speculatively. “Somehow I don’t think you’d be intimidated by critics.”

Lucian shrugged. “People either like my food, or they don’t. It’s not my problem.”

“Exactly,” she cried out with a little laugh. “You’re a brawler. I need that.”

He made a sound of amusement, but beneath the cover of the table, I saw the way his fingers clenched, like he wanted to run for it. But he didn’t. “I haven’t ever thought about doing something like that.”

“Babe,” Saint murmured, picking up on Lucian’s reluctance.

Delilah ignored him, her eyes wide and pleading. “I get it—this is a lot to pile on out of the blue. And a huge change in lifestyle for you. But would you consider looking over my menu plans and see if it stirs any creative interest for you?”

Lucian blinked, clearly surprised at her fervor. I wasn’t. I’d spent time with Delilah and knew she was passionate about cooking and food. It wasn’t a leap to see that she’d be excited to meet someone with the same sort of talent and passion for food. The funny thing was that Lucian didn’t seem to understand how much of himself he revealed through his work. Delilah was right; he was a fighter. But he was also a thoughtful artist who evoked emotions through his food. His dishes were sensual in a way I didn’t think he realized.

Under Delilah’s unblinking puppy eyes, he relented with a quirk of his mouth, as though he wanted to keep resisting but didn’t have the energy to fight her force of will. “All right. I’ll give you my email, and you can send them over.”

“Yes!” She did a little fist pump that had Saint chuckling and hauling her back against his wide chest. They looked so comfortable together, so much in love, that a small pang of envy pinched my heart. Delilah beamed up at him before giving me a happy, relaxed smile. “He’s much better than Greg, Em. So much better.”