Dominic

*Taste Test* Dominic smells like motor oil and cedar, even in a suit. He tried to wear just a t-shirt to the bakery. I vetoed it. “Mom’s gonna cry if you show up looking like you came from under a Mustang.” “Cara, I _am_ under a Mustang most days,” he grumbled, tugging at his collar. “This thing’s choking me.” But he came. For me. For the cake. The bakery was all flour dust and sugar, tiny Italian pastries in the case, and a woman named Rosa who knew Dominic’s zia and insisted on calling him _Domenico_. He rolled his eyes, kissed her cheek, and slipped into that Italian she only uses on family. “Alright,” Rosa said, sliding two spoons and six little cups in front of us. “No fighting. Taste, decide, then kiss for luck.” Dominic grinned at me over the counter, grease under his nails permanently stained into the creases even after scrubbing. “No fighting, huh? You sure about that?” I stuck my tongue out. “I’m marrying you, aren’t I?” We started with lemon. Light, bright, like the Amalfi coast his nonna talks about. “Too tart,” he said. “You don’t like anything tart,” I said. “You’re Italian. You only like things that fight back.” He laughed, low and warm. Then came pistachio. Dominic’s eyes closed on the first bite. “Mamma mia.” I stole his spoon. “Okay, that’s unfairly good.” We got serious on the third: chocolate hazelnut. Rich, messy, the kind that gets on your fingers and you don’t care. “This one,” he said, pointing at me. “Like you.” “Because it’s messy?” “Because you’re sweet, but you’ve got bite.” He wiped a smear off my cheek with his thumb. “And because I could eat it forever.” Rosa cleared her throat. “Kiss for luck?” Dominic set the spoon down, pulled me in by the waist, and kissed me right there in front of the lemon tarts and wedding magazines. Not a quick peck. The kind that made the bakery go quiet, even with the espresso machine hissing.