And for me.
I thrust the knife into his side, and he let out a moaning hiss. I twisted it and pulled it back. My arm shook, my heart pounded. I handed the blood-covered blade to Boner, and he leaned in closer to me.
My bloodstained fingertips touched his cheek. “Break his bones for us, baby,” I whispered.
A large hand went around my forearm and pulled me back. Lock walked me to the door and handed me off to Bear. All I saw as I left the room were my old man’s incredible eyes holding mine and gleaming.
TODAY, IN AN EFFORT TO WIN SMILES FROM BONER, I’d made him flan. I’d wanted to prepare something special for him, so I’d decided on the caramel custard, which was practically the national obsession of Argentina. It was a simple enough recipe. Eggs, milk, sugar, and a real vanilla bean with a dash of lime juice and lots of whisking. Luckily, Rae had a top-of-the-line KitchenAid mixer, and it had made the entire process of making the custard a snap. I’d also bought a special round pan to bake it in. And as Argentineans paired their flan with dulce de leche sauce, I’d made that, too. That was a lot of caramel in one sensual dessert.
Grace and Lock had come over to Boner’s and surprised us with a dinner of barbecued ribs and fries from a local joint.
A couple of hours later, Lock rose from the table after Grace and I had cleared the dishes. “We’re off.”
“Aren’t you going to stay for dessert?” I asked.
“We’ve got to hit the road early tomorrow. I’ve got a lead on a 1970 El Camino and a ’68 Corvette up in Bismarck.”
Boner’s forehead puckered. “That be serious.”
“That be right,” replied Lock, stretching his arms over his head and then circling them around his wife, who stood in front of him.
“And I’m going with,” Grace said, stroking her old man’s arm. “It’s been way too long since we’ve done an overnight bike trip, and I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Do what you can before this one arrives.” I laughed, pointing at my belly.
Grace’s face lit up. “Exactly.”
We said our good-nights, and I locked the door after them.
I touched Boner’s arm. “You have room for dessert?”
He rubbed at the back of his neck with a hand. “I’m beat, gonna head on upstairs.”
There was that gloominess again.
“Please, Boner. I made it special for you. Just have a taste?”
I brushed his lips with mine, determined to nudge at that moodiness of his.
“You go relax on the sofa, and I’ll bring you your surprise.”
His eyebrows rose. “Surprise?”
“You’ll see.”
In the kitchen, I extricated the custard from its pan onto a large plate, the caramel sauce dripping down the custard tower and pooling in the dish. I poured the thick dulce de leche into a small bowl and added two spoons. I figured personal dishes were unnecessary.
I brought everything into the living room, setting it on the coffee table before Boner.
He stared at it.
He stared at me.
He stared back at the dessert.
“It’s flan,” I said.
“Flan?”
“Flan.”
The word was beginning to sound ridiculous. It reminded me of when I was a kid and I would repeat words hundreds of times over on purpose with my best friend. The words would lose their meaning and familiarity and simply turn into a silly tumble of sounds, making us laugh.
“It’s a custard,” I said.
Another blank look.
“You know, like pudding? They call it créme caramel in France and flan in Spain and Latin America.” I shifted my weight. “I thought you’d like it.”
Mission Status: Epic Fail.
He picked up a spoon and sliced into the glistening wobbly mound of creaminess, scooping a generous helping into his mouth. His eyes widened, his thumb wiping at the corner of his lips. He scooped in another huge spoonful.
“Bone, have you ever had flan before?”
He shook his head as he dipped the spoon into the thick dulce de leche and licked at it with that tongue of his, his eyes on me. “I like it. It’s a winner, baby.”
“It’s a favorite in Argentina. I thought—”
“You thought I’d had it before?” He rested a hand on his thigh and aimed his gaze at me.
“Yeah, I thought you might like—”
His green eyes flashed, his fingers tightening over the spoon handle. “You ever made flan before?”
“No.”
He dropped the spoon in the plate and held out his hand to me, and I went to him. He pulled me down onto his lap, a hand cupping my jaw and then sliding around my neck.
“You made it special for me? Looked up a recipe for me?”
I nodded, my fingers combing through his short dark beard.
His mouth crashed on mine, and a caramel, cream, and Boner infusion exploded on my tongue. He pulled me in closer to his chest, his arms wrapping tighter around me, as if he couldn’t get enough of me, of our taste, our heat, our kiss.
A whimper escaped my throat.