“Wait what? Is there more?” My mouth drops open.
“That was the starter.” He rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet.
“I am in so much trouble,” I laugh, patting my stomach.
Next he brings me a tiny sorbet that he calls a palate cleanser. Like I’m in a fancy restaurant. I can’t believe he’s going to all this hasslefor me.
Then roast grouse with wild mushrooms, watercress and crispy roast potatoes. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long, long time.
And between the food, he asks me how things have been. Tentatively at first, we share details of the last three years. I want to know about his disappearance. How he quit being a mafia boss when mostly death is the way people leave the mafia.
He’s equally eager, or seems so, to hear about what happened to me. School, books, films. All the pets I wish I had. I guess he remembers from before, because when I boast that my grades are good he nods impatiently and says he knows that. But when I confess I don’t have any friends, he listens in attentive silence, brows pinched together.
I quiz him about how he left everything behind, and it’s not purely because I could do with the tips. I want to follow right in his footsteps all the way to his side.
The price has been every personal connection. I’m the only one who knew where he was, and I see a flare of sadness in his eyes when I ask him how he coped with the isolation. His answer,fine, is a lie.
He’s been lonely.
“Dessert?” He changes the subject.
“Is it kulfi?” I ask.
“No, sorry,” he laughs softly. I know he’s remembering red velvet cushions, the steam of fragrant hot towels and the chill of sweet milky kulfi.
Those evenings were innocent when I was little. Colouring in pictures of flowers as I sat in our usual booth. I ate rice and chicken korma, and poppadoms.So manypoppadoms with mango chutney. James would pile them onto my plate and challenge me to eat more than him.
When I was older, the colouring books were replaced by novels, the plain rice became pilau rice and sometimes James brought me the latest fantasy paperback with talking animals and world-ending stakes. In the years leading up to Dad’s death, I listened. I chatted with them. They cast wary glances at each other when they discussed my uncle, disagreeing about him. Dad thought Uncle Logan was merely a pain. James maintained he was a problem in the waiting, though they didn’t share the details. But when James teased my dad, his humour always bone dry, he would wink at me.
I was in on the joke, part of their team.
And this evening, it feels like James and I are a team again, just the two of us. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“It’s not.” His green eyes pin me as he gathers up our empty plates.
“Can I help?” I need to be closer to him. I’m already slipping out of my chair and following him to the counter.
“No,” he growls from behind the kitchen island, partially blocked from view. He swallows and his throat bobs, his Adam’s apple covered in black stubble. I want to kiss him there and feel that roughness on my lips.
“Stay there.” He sounds hoarse, like he’s enduring a trial. James braces himself, one hand on the work surface, eyes closed. It’s as though he’s in pain. “I only need to grab dessert.”
I ignore him, of course, and round the kitchen island just in time to see him kneeling down to the under-counter. The fridge door is open and spilling golden light right onto his crotch. He rubs his palm over the long bulge in his jeans and mouths,Fuck, Mia.
Oh. Em. Gee.
He’s hard.
Andmassive.
I take the two silent steps backwards so I can only see the top of his head.
“Shall we eat dessert in the sitting room?” I say guilelessly. There’s only one way I’m going to get him close to me, and across a table isn’t it.
That shiver of arousal I feel? It’s mutual.
He wants me too.
4
