One more smart-ass quip about her sweet potatoes and Shaye was going to carve her husband a new jack-o’-lantern smile even though it wasn’t Halloween.

She checked again on her sweet potato casserole with pecan topping—recipe courtesy of Del’s mum. Del insisted on calling it a “diabetic kumara coma.” Next to it, in one of Oban’s community hall kitchen ovens, was a tray of boring roasted pumpkin, kumara, parsnips, and potatoes—one of Del’s unoriginal side dishes. Shaye sniffed and closed the oven door. Some chefs preferred to do something a little special for their friends, family, and community on Christmas Day.

One of the many differences of opinion they’d seemed to be having today.

She slanted a glance across the community kitchen to where Del stood at a counter, carving up one of the legs of lamb brought in by the Komekes, dug out of their hangi twenty minutes ago. He barked orders at Rob next to him who was making short work of filling a platter of perfectly cooked pork loin. Rob gave him a warning glance which said I’ve been carving hangi meat since before you could piss in a pot, but Del apparently didn’t notice.

“Lani and Zach—get the cold salads set up on the buffet,” Del yelled through the servery window to where the duo leaned against the wall, deep in conversation.

Lani arched an indignant eyebrow at Del, and Zach folded his arms and said, “Really, dude? How about a please and thank you?”

“Now, Goldilocks.”

Zach flipped him the bird but sauntered over to the servery to load up with salad bowls.

Somebody needed to remind her husband that this was a fun community get-together to celebrate the holidays. In other words, Del needed to lighten the hell up, and she was that somebody to remind him.

“Hey! Hollywood.”

She stalked over to tap him on the shoulder when he didn’t turn around. Muscles bunched under his chef’s jacket—the one he’d insisted on wearing today, even though, hello, Christmas Day, and they weren’t officially working.

His head jerked toward her. “Little busy here.”

Shaye laid a palm over his, stilling the knife in his hands. She craned around him to smile at Rob. “Think you can cope without this Gordon Ramsay wannabe for a bit?”

Rob chuckled. “Yeah. Go easy on him, sweetheart.”

Del’s normally kissable mouth puckered into a pout—not that he’d admit he was doing anything resembling a girlish sulk. “But I’m—”

“Tough, chef. You’re coming with me to inspect the desserts.”

He muttered something under his breath that would’ve cost him a two-dollar donation to Due South’s kitchen swear jar, but set down his knife. “Please tell me you didn’t let Denise anywhere near my pavlovas—you remember what Holly’s bridal shower cake looked like.”

The infamous zombie penis cake which was meant to look like a metal wrench. Yep, Shaye remembered.

“I heard that, boy,” Denise said from the servery where she was helping Lani and Zach transfer food to the big buffet tables set up along the front of the hall.

Del blew her a kiss then followed Shaye over to the counter where she’d been adding the final touches to the dessert dishes. Thanks to everyone contributing, they had bowls of trifle, Mrs. T’s famous fruit cake, fresh fruit salad, struffoli napoletani from Kezia, and enough brandy snap shells ready to fill with whipped cream to feed any army. One of her and Del’s many culinary discussions this afternoon involved Del’s need for everything to run as if they were on dinner service. Only, as Shaye had pointed out repeatedly, they weren’t on a service; they were supposed to be delegating to friends and family so that they could enjoy their Christmas dinner, too.

Earlier, he’d pulled the head-chef card on making a fresh batch of hot custard for the plum pudding, and she’d conceded. Microwaved custard was gross. But when it came to whipping the cream for his precious pavlovas and decorating them with intricately cut slices of kiwifruit and strawberries, Shaye had put her foot down. Preparing the damn pavlovas could be handled by someone else, because the two of them had been at the community hall since they’d finished breakfast at her mum’s place at ten. Shaye had barely had time to help Michaela unwrap the darling little tea set she’d bought her niece for Christmas when Del started making we should get going noises.

Del cast a critical eye over the rows of filled brandy snaps and the leftover big mixing bowl of whipped cream. Shaye planned to cover the remaining cream with plastic wrap and leave it in the refrigerator until it was time to decorate the six perfectly risen, crisp-shelled pavlovas waiting on serving dishes.

“Thought I asked you to wait until after dinner to whip the cream?” Del asked mildly.

“Remember the part when I told you where you could stick a couple of those brandy snaps?” she replied just as mildly. “I made an executive decision.”

He snorted and brushed past Shaye to closer inspect a pavlova—one she’d accidentally bumped and a chunk of glossy white meringue had broken off. The pouty mouth turned into a frown, but he’d learned something in the time he’d been sharing her bed. He rose to his full height, leaned a jeans-clad hip against the counter, kept his sexy-as-sin lips sealed, and adopted his I’m chill with this face.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Shaye faced him, leaned her pretty-red-party-dress-covered-by-an-apron hip against the counter a foot from his, and broke off a sizeable chunk of meringue—from one of the perfect, unbroken pavlovas. Del’s gaze wrenched sideways and down, then tracked her hand as it lifted the sugary sweetness to her mouth. She licked the crisp white shell of sugar, then popped it into her mouth and crunched. A half-fake, half-real orgasmic moan slipped from between her lips.

Del froze and she watched him between lowered eyelashes. About to turn into the Incredible Hulk chef? Or about to drag her into the community hall’s janitor’s room and teach her a lesson? Shaye scraped her teeth lightly over her bottom lip; the second option was very appealing.

“Shaye?”

“Uh-huh?” she murmured and reached for another chunk of meringue—this one she generously planned to share with him.

Del’s hand shot out and lightly gripped her wrist before she could touch it. “You’ll ruin your appetite before dinner.”

She poked her tongue out at him. “There’s nothing wrong with my appetite. And there’s plenty of pavs. No one will notice if I nibble away just a little bit more.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent a smile.

“No one will notice if a couple of them are a little lopsided,” she added, pouring gasoline onto the fire.

“Shaye.”

She ignored the warning in his tone and swayed closer to him, popping open the buttons on his chef jacket. Once they were undone, she pushed aside the jacket and ran her fingers over a snug T-shirt. Lots of yummy muscles bumped under her fingertips as they made their way up to Del’s nape, where she gripped a fistful of his hair. His blue eyes darkened under the bright kitchen lights and he finally got with the program by gripping her hip and reeling her the rest of the way in so she was snugged up flush against him.

“Chef?” she whispered, her mouth lightly pressed to the warm skin of his throat.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Uh-huh?”

“We’re doing dessert my way, okay?” She nudged her pelvis forward, just to give him a teensy reminder of who was really in charge.

There came a ragged inhale right by her left ear.

“Okay,” he said. “You win.”

“Of course I do.” She rose on tiptoe and nibbled her way up his jawline, still prickly as he’d forgotten to shave before they left home that morning. Just the way she liked him—a little bit roughed up, a little bit off his game. Her perfect man not so perfect, but still perfect for her.

He sucked in another breath and the hand on her hip clenched a fraction tighter. She arched back a little so she could see the blissful smile on her husband’s beautiful face. Lock, stock, and barrel, she had him exactly where she wanted.

“Give me a Christmas kiss and I promise not to eat any more of your precious pavs.” She closed her eyes and puckered up.

“You’ve got bigger balls than me, son.” Bill’s voice yelled from the other side of the kitchen. “Duck, everyone!”

Huh?

Shaye’s eyes popped open. Instead of Del’s mouth inches away from hers, there was only white. Well, cream, to be precise. Three finger-laden blobs of soft, whipped cream smearing over her lips. She choked on a gasp, her spine stiffening as she released the fistful of Del’s hair and thumped his shoulder. He grinned down at her, and before she could pull away and lunge for a brandy snap to use as a javelin, he dipped his head.

“Merry Christmas, Cupcake.”

Then he kissed her until there wasn’t a trace of sweetness left on either of them.