Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3) (45 page)

“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.

I pulled away from him and caught my breath. “I thought maybe your mom used to make it for you, and you’d enjoy it.”

His forehead slid against mine. “She cooked a lot, but making desserts like this, not so much. She wanted to learn American shit. She used to make a lot of puddings, brownies, and cakes from boxes. Instant was a whole new concept for her, and she was fascinated by it. I sure didn’t complain, but I don’t remember a flan or this caramel sauce.”

“Dulce de leche.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Say it again.”

“Dulce—”

His eyes went to my mouth. “Slower.”

“De leche.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Baby, you gotta try your
flan
.”

His pronunciation of the word made my insides ping. He brought a spoonful to my lips, and I took it in my mouth.

“Good, huh?”

I nodded, my gaze never leaving his. “Mmhmm.”

He fed me again. “Did you take Spanish in school?”

“No, I took French,” I replied.

He licked caramel from the corner of my mouth, and my eyes fluttered closed.

“Do you remember any Spanish?” I asked.

He fed me another spoonful, and the cool custard melted in my mouth, my throat burning with heat.

“I remember a few things.”

“Tell me,” I murmured, watching his lips take in a spoonful.

“My uncle had a few favorites he used to say to the women he brought home to fuck. One in particular used to make me laugh.”

“What was it?”

“
Abre las piernas
. Spread your legs.”

“He had to tell them that?”

Boner laughed. “That fucker was always telling people what to do. Never let up. You’d think that one was a little obvious, right?”

His brows drew together, and I rubbed my finger over the indents, smoothing them out.

“I remember nice ones though,” he said, his voice softer. “Really nice.”

“Tell me.”

He gently kissed the smile forming on my lips. “
Mi corazón
.”

“My heart.”

He nodded. “
Mi cielo
.”

“Don’t know.”

“My sky or heaven.”

He fed me another spoonful, and I stared into his eyes as I swallowed the luscious sweet custard perfectly scented with vanilla.

“
Mi vida.
”

“My life?”

“Yeah.”

He put down the spoon and kissed the edge of my lips, and my head tilted back, as if some magnetic force emanating from him had willed it.

“
Mi amor
,” he whispered, laying soft kisses against my throat.

I spun in throbbing pink
corazóns
, deep blue
cielos
, cool green
vidas
.

“
Mi amor.
” His breath was hot on my neck. He sucked on my earlobe as his fingers traced dizzying trails down the delicate skin of my throat.

“Bone.”

He kissed me again, his hand at my throat, soft, slow kisses that pulled on my tongue, on my lips, on my soul.

“You wrote me a poem,” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You left it for me, here on the table.”

A shadow passed over his eyes, and he kissed me again, his fingers cradling my face.

I breathed in the warm scent of his skin. “I love my poem.”

His chuckle hummed in my chest.

“And I love you.”

His forehead slid to mine, his eyes shut. “Firefly.”

I held him tighter.

He cleared his throat. “You know, I don’t want this dulce de leche to go to waste.”

I glanced at him, my fingers lingering on his chest. “It did take me forever to make.”

I nuzzled the swell of his pec, and he let out a shaky breath.

“Got an idea,” he whispered.

“I hope it’s a tasty idea to fully appreciate my effort and the flavor?”

“Grab the bowl.”

I grabbed the small bowl with the thick caramel. He took my hand, and we charged up the stairs to his bedroom.

There, we experienced the sweet glory of dulce de leche and practiced our Argentinian Spanish, all at the same time.

Lo más…que rico
, baby.

Yes, it was the best.

So delicious.

So damn good.

BONER AND I WERE GETTING MARRIED
.

He hadn’t exactly proposed or asked. Over a quick cup of coffee one afternoon at the Meager Grand Cafe, he had suddenly taken in a deep breath and pronounced: “I wanna marry you, Firefly.”

I’d squealed and hugged him, knocking over his double espresso and my mocha latte.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, holding me tight.

I only burst into tears.

Oh, it would have been nice to have the baby first, to lose the extra pounds, to wear the perfect dress, to ride his bike to the ceremony and back. But what mattered was that we were together and couldn’t live without each other. What mattered was that both of us were finally ready to make a new life, and that life was with each other.

We decided to have our ceremony in the majestic lush beauty of Sylvan Lake. The tall spires of the evergreens were our cathedral, the green grass our velvet carpet, the unusual granite boulders and hulking rock formations rising from the ground our silent witnesses. We made the effort and got there very early on a weekday morning to be able to have the secluded small spot we’d chosen to ourselves, and we were so glad we did.

Only the One-Eyed Jacks along with Rae and Tania attended. We arrived and a mist rolled over the still, sapphire water. The cool, crisp mountain air was laced with the almost butterscotch-like sweet fragrance of the ponderosa pine. At first, none of us spoke, taking in the perfect sacred hush. The colors of the morning bloomed over us, their tones and hues depending on the shifting shadows of the clouds and the strength of the sunlight. Pure magic.

Grace was my matron of honor, and Lock was Boner’s best man. Strolling up the aisle formed by Boner’s brothers, Tania held Becca by the hand, and they threw white rose petals on everyone.

My dress was a Bohemian-style piece that Lenore had made for me using a vintage dress she
’
d
found. A plunging V-neckline, ruched chiffon bodice with hand-sewn corded lace appliqué, and a low back set off my assets. The skirt was made of antique-looking beige chiffon. Pearl-shaped buttons made a line down the back. My gown was ethereal, flowy, and oh-so comfortable in my progressed state of pregnancy.

As a gift, Grace had given me a thin pale-gold cashmere shrug to wear over my bare shoulders to keep me warm in the cool morning air. And I had made myself a special headpiece, a long chain dotted with tiny crystals that hung down the back of my long hair like a necklace. I felt like a fairy-tale princess in the woods.

My soon-to-be husband’s wide-eyed stare and parted lips confirmed that he liked what he saw as Lock walked me down the aisle. I could’ve sworn Lock’s arm was shaking just a little under mine.

Boner wore a vintage black tuxedo coat with tails over his colors and one of those body hugging V neck T-shirts I had gotten him. My dashing dark prince. When he took my one hand in both of his, he didn’t let go until after we’d said our vows and he put the white-gold wedding band we’d chosen together on my finger, and I put one on his. Our rings were made of two coiled snakes with a tiny skull at the center where the snake heads met. On my ring, a diamond dotted one eye of the skull.

The justice of the peace declared us legal. Husband and wife. Old man and old lady.

We kissed, and Boner whispered in my ear, “That bright life just came true, Firefly.”

I kissed him again.

Everyone cheered and small champagne bottles popped open. I had one quick sip and kissed my husband right away. I wanted to lock the warm taste of him and the crisp sweetness of the champagne—this very moment—in my heart and senses forever.

We made our way back to where everyone had parked their bikes and cars.

Boner stopped in his tracks, his arm tightening around me even more. I followed his line of sight.

“Holy wow!” I blurted.

Dig’s 1968 black Camaro gleamed in the sunlight. That Camaro had been his pride and joy from all accounts. After Dig had been killed, Boner had taken it, but he never took it out, never drove it, although he kept it secured at the club all these years.

Now, here she was, glossy beyond belief, full of attitude, slick bravado, and sexy swagger. Stealth in motion. Breathtaking.

Boner turned to Lock. “What did you do?” His voice heavy with emotion, censure, shock.

Lock’s huge dark eyes held his. Grace twisted her arms around one of Lock’s.

“It’s a beautiful piece, and it’s meant to be enjoyed, meant to be ridden. That’s what he bought it for,” Lock said. “I was with him when he found it. You would’ve thought he’d won the damn lottery. It was a piece of junk he could barely afford, but he had to have it. He took his time rebuilding it with Wreck, loved taking it out, loved how it felt in his hands. It made him laugh, made him roar. You were the only one he’d let drive it, apart from Wreck.”

“You stole the keys once and took it for a joyride, you little shit,” said Boner.