Don’t trip on it. Just enjoy the day.

What had happened to the compartmentalizing he’d been so good at only a little while ago? Hell, he’d had years of practice at shutting things down. He knew it was Allie that was making things harder to keep under control. And control had been the key to managing his life since those days . . . the days before his life had come crashing down around him piece by piece. Brandon’s death. Seeing Jamie’s reaction—his grief going way beyond what the rest of them had experienced. Coming to terms with the fact that he had to leave Allie behind when he went away to college. That one night when he’d seen her again. When he’d done those things to her. The way he’d felt the next morning, as if he’d fucking murdered someone . . . and the damn accident that he swore was not a death wish.

“Mick? You look like a cloud just passed over your grave. What are you thinking about?”

“What? Sorry, princess. Just woolgathering.”

“You are so not the kind of man to mingle with sheep,” she teased.

He had to smile. “Nope. Subbie girl though you may be, you’re definitely not the sheep type.”

She laughed, and some of the ice that had been running through his veins melted. “You’ve got that right. God, I can’t remember the last time I ate here.”

“The last weekend in May, my senior year. Jamie and I were cutting school, which was our right as seniors, and you were playing delinquent with us.”

“I can’t believe you remember all that.”

He reached out and tucked a long strand of her dark, silky hair behind her ear. “You were wearing a cotton sundress with tiny pink roses all over it. They were the same shade as your lips.”

Her smile widened, her eyes shining. “You’re a romantic at heart, you know that, Mick Reid?”

“Never.”

She slunk up against him. “Always.”

He grabbed her by the waist and bent to brush a kiss across her lush mouth. “If I agree with you, will it get me some later?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Her voice was a quiet purr. “You buy me breakfast and you are so getting laid.”

“Am I, now?”

“Yep. Sir. Yep, Sir.”

He laughed and picked her up until her feet left the ground.

“Hey!”

He set her back down, took her hand and kissed it, held it tightly in his.

If he could just keep the bullshit from invading his brain, this might turn out to be a perfect day. A perfect life.

Gotta take it one day at a time.

That was the smart thing to do, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

*   *   *

THEY WERE FINALLY seated at the long counter facing the gleaming steel kitchen, the only seating there was at the crowded, noisy Camellia Grill. Mick seemed almost too big to fit on the stools lined up at the marble counter—he had to sit half-turned toward her, one long leg crossed over hers, but Allie didn’t mind. She was enjoying the closeness she felt with him today.

Maybe part of it was that he’d opened up to her and told her a bit of his story about the accident. But it was also that he’d remained open to her—a good chink in the armor, anyway—and she loved the vulnerability he was allowing himself with her.

She knew it was that he allowed himself—there was no doubt about it. Mick was still almost perfectly controlled. The Dom thing. The Mick thing. It was that lovely, melding combination of control and vulnerability that just killed her. He could ask anything he wanted of her right now and she’d have to say yes.

“What are you having, baby?” he asked.

“A veggie omelet.”

“Really? That’s no fun. I’m having the waffles.”

“Oh, that sounds good.”

“You should have them, too.”

“I’m a pastry chef, Mick. I have sugar in my mouth on a daily basis. Or, I will when I start working again.”

He leaned in and murmured against her ear, his breath warm on her skin, “I’ll put some sugar in your mouth, girl.”

She shivered, lust infusing her system so fast it made her go hot all over.

“Yes, please,” she answered.

He grinned. “Good girl.”

“Oh, God, don’t do that to me here, Mick.”

“I’ll do plenty to you later. Just leaving you with something to think about.”

“You’re a wicked man.”

“You like me that way.”

“Yes, I do. But shall we change the subject?”

His gray eyes were sparkling. “Why, when I’m having so much fun torturing you?”

“Change of subject, please.”

He looked like he was about to protest when a waiter approached their section of the counter and poured two cups of coffee for them without being asked.

“What’ll you have?”

Mick ordered for them, and the waiter, in classic Camellia Grill style, shouted the order at the cooks.

Mick turned his attention back to her.

“Okay. Change of subject, but only because you asked so nicely. Tell me how your family’s doing.”

“They’re fine. I’ve talked to Mama and Zia Renata on the phone. No one brought up my business plan, which is just as I’d expected. Brush things under the rug and they disappear—that’s our family motto.”

“That’s everyone’s family motto.”

“Maybe. How is your family? I only get regular updates on Neal through Marie Dawn.”

“Doing well. Gareth’s kid just had his fourteenth birthday. Makes me feel old. I remember when he was in diapers. Nolan’s wedding is coming up in the fall . . . hey, you should see if they need someone to do the cake.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve got that arranged by now.”

“Maybe not. I’ll give you his fiancée’s number. Katie’s great. You should call her.”

“I actually love to do wedding cakes.”

“Where did you learn how?” he asked as their food arrived.

“Veggie omelet hold the onions and the house waffles for the beautiful couple!” the waiter shouted for effect as he set the plates in front of them.

“Thanks.” She smiled at the waiter before turning back to Mick. “A bit at culinary school—just doing cakes, I mean—but I apprenticed at this incredible place in Vienna for about six months and they really put me through the drills. Made me stay up literally all night rolling and rerolling my fondant until I learned to do it right.”

“Fondant?” He took a big bite of syrup-covered waffle. “Ah, this is damn good,” he said, the words muffled.

“It’s like icing, except it’s heavier and more moldable. You can make flowers out of it—almost anything.”

“Ah. And now I know as much as I did before.”

“I can give you baking lessons if you’re interested.”

“No thanks. I’ll leave the art up to the artist. Tell me more about Vienna.”

She chewed a bite of her omelet, washed it down with a sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?”

He shrugged, shoving another forkful of waffle between his lips. “I don’t know. Whatever you want to tell me. What did you love about the city?”

“The history, I guess. It’s everywhere. Ever present, if that makes sense. It’s in the architecture, which is gorgeous—the museums and the opera houses and the cathedrals. In the old cobblestone streets. In the way people go about their lives there, for the most part. I mean, there are really sleek, modern structures that rival contemporary architecture anywhere in the world, like the Haas Haus. Have you ever seen it?”

“You mean that big mirrored building? I’ve seen pictures. Looks incredible.”

“It is,” she agreed. “It’s stunning. But despite places like that there’s still a sense of antiquity about the city. Sort of like there is here. I guess that’s why I felt so at home in Europe.”

“What else?”

“About Vienna in general? Or about the architecture?”

“I just want to know about your experiences in Europe. It must have been amazing to see so many countries. To live in so many places. I couldn’t have done it. I can’t bear to be away from New Orleans for too long. You’re braver than I am, Allie girl.” He put his fork down and turned to her. “In a lot of ways.”