Before I can ask what, exactly, the several hundred thousand dollar budget is for, if not venue or invitations or food, our server returns with a hoard of equally armed gentlemen behind him to deliver our meals. They set our plates in front of us with a grace that rivals a ballet instructor I once had—a lifetime ballerina who kindly but firmly told me that ballet was not a match for me. Tap, hip hop, jazz, contemporary, and interpretive were also not matches, unfortunately. I still have hope for ballroom, but I’ll have to find a different dance studio for that. None of the guys at my previous one would partner with me. You step on someone’s toes a single dozen times, and suddenly you’re persona non grata at the partner’s dance classes. Whole lot of nonsense, if you ask me.
What is absolutely not nonsense is how delicious—and, bless all, regularly proportioned—the food being set before us looks.
My crab cakes have my mouth watering to the point where I can just about forget that there are only two of them, and my stomach definitely will not be satisfied with that amount. That’s okay, though, because my tongue will bemorethan satisfied. The crispy, golden exterior calls to me, and I reach for my silverware.
Before I can put my fork to good use, Roman’s enters my line of sight,stabbing,scooping, andstealingone of my cakes.
I emit a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and his hand in my hair disentangles itself so he can run it across my shoulder, petting me.
He keeps his eyes on Brian and Amelia as he putsmycrab cake onhisplate while he maintains a conversation with them about the newest collection of stamps about to be released.Under Brian’s amused gaze and Amelia’s wide-eyed one, Roman scoots our plates close enough together that he can easily slide a pile of buttery, aromatic mushrooms onto my plate. He follows that with a mound of thinly sliced potatoes before giving me one of two lamb ribs.
He does not look at my aghast expression once during this interaction. He also does not remove his hand from my person, somehow managing to transfer all of this food one-handed without spilling a drop on the table while Brian and Amelia look on.
I, actually, might kill him.
“Seriously,” I hiss. “Are youinsane?”
His head turns and he shrugs as his eyes sparkle with the sinister need to feed people. “Eat your dinner, Sweet.”
My stomach, the stupid traitor, chooses this moment to rumble loud enough that Ruby says, “He’s right, El. You should eat.”
Fingers flow through my hair, rewrapping curls around rough skin. “Yeah, El. I’m right,” Roman… teases? Mocks? Whatisthat new tone? Whatever it is, he drops it to order, “Eat.”
My stomach pangs, and I… listen. I just listen. I’m not so stupid as to not, really, when good food is right in front of me, slowly going cold.
“Fine,” I capitulate, nose in the air. I mutter a begrudgingthank youto Roman, who responds only with a light tug of my hair.
On principle, I start with my crab cake, crunching through the crispy exterior to enjoy the creamy concoction within. I don’t know what I was expecting when I ordered seafood this far away from any sort of coast, but it wasn’tthis—a crab cake to rival the ones I had in Maine the weekend I tricked Ruby into the car and drove us six hours to “pick up some seafood." But even fresh, right-by-the-ocean crab cakes havenothingon the flavor,texture, and all-around joy happening in my mouth right now.
I wonder if Roman can recreate this based on taste alone? Suddenly, him stealing one doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
Eyeing my plate, then his, then mine again, I quickly separate bites of the pommes Anna and the mushrooms, nudging to the side closest to him. Just in case he wants to have a taste and make them at home. You know, for that wholecooking is my passionthing he does.
I amsokind.
As the last crumbs of crab cake fall, I set my sights on the mushrooms. Yes, please, come to me. I work through my meal like this, one item at a time, thoroughly savoring each bite. I glance at the bits I’ve left for Roman, then at the man himself, who has his eyes likewise fixed on the scraps of food at the edge of my plate.
He is not, for reasons unknown, reading my mind about said bits being for him.
Men are dumb.
I tap the potatoes with my fork, pushing them ever closer to him, and his eyes dart to me, then back to where I’m now inching the mushrooms toward his seat. The corner of his mouth lifts, and his fork knocks mine out of the way so that he can scoop the potatoes onto his plate. The mushrooms follow.
I sit on my hands to keep from throwing them up in victory.
Yummy food at home! Yummy food at home!
He cuts into the mushrooms first, sliding a piece around in the buttery sauce before bringing it to his mouth. His brows furrow in concentration.
He hums, lifts a bit of sauce on his spoon to inspect it, then sniffs, tastes it sans mushroom, and pulls out his phone to open the Notes app, marking down flavors and… whatever else he needs to know to make this at home. Who cares, really? All that matters is he’s doing it. Yummy food at home!
He follows the same procedure with the potatoes, also taking notes. When he goes to return his phone to his pocket, I clear my throat, staring pointedly at the spare bites of his lamb Provençal that remain untouched.
He sighs, reopens the app to type more, tasting and inspecting between notes.
I sigh, content.
After another round of tiny pink cakes, the group scatters to head to their respective homes, Ruby and Will finding a ride with Amelia and Brian—after Roman conducts a full big brother inspection of Ruby, assuring himself that she’s okay after today.
