“I think not so. You need to make it very clear to him that you’re not interested. I suggest you use plain words with short syllables.”
“He’s not stupid, Whit.”
“I mean it, Amelia. Make it crystal clear.”
“I’m not interested in your brother. I made it clear enough to him last night—and he didn’t seem to take the news badly. Remember the server?” More than ever it’s apparent that this thing between us needs to be secret. El isn’t hung up on me but Whit seems keen to labor over the point. I refuse to come between them, though it seems only one of them has a problem.
He points at the cakes. “Those ugly little tits are what El plans to feed you tomorrow when he takes you for coffee.”
“You got me canelés?”
“Not very impressive, are they? For all his waxing lyrical. Though they were a pain in the arse to track down.”
“Why did you?”
“The café El was talking about is closed on Sunday. I thought I would have to get them flown in from Bordeaux.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why would you go to the effort?”
“Because I can. Because I wanted to. Because you have a sweet tooth and because you sounded so interested when he was banging on about them.”
“I was just being polite,” I say with a laugh. “He brought me coffee!”
“Yeah, well so did I, so you’d better drink it,” he grumbles.
“It’s not a competition.” I reach for my mimosa. “And even if it was,” I say, putting it back down. “You’ve already won.”
“Yeah?”
“You won before he’d even set eyes on me. You won again when you ordered me lunch that day, and when you made sure I got home when my skirt split. I’m not interested in your brother, Whit. There is no competition.”
“It doesn’t hurt to hear it.”
“I’m glad you’re listening. Don’t make this a thing. You’re a good man, and you love your brother. Not to mention, you’re one hell of a screw.”
“Amelia!” He says my name with the cadence of a Southern aunt spotting someone wearing white after Labor Day.
“Those years of practice obviously paid off.” I allow my gaze to slide over him as though he were a sweet treat. He’s certainly delectable.
“All those years and I didn’t realize you were a little voyeur.”
I’m saved from answering as his phone buzzes in the kitchen.
“I should’ve turned it off,” he mutters, pushing back his chair. He pauses as he passes, curling his hands around my shoulders and tracing his lips around my ear. “Eat some sugar. Hydrate.”
“Why?” I call after he pulls away.
“You’ll need the energy.”
I try to contain my smile by nibbling at the tart. I don’t need to try for long because the citrusy flavors meld so well with that of the butter case, I take a proper bite. I really ought to try the canelés, given the trouble he went to get them, right?
“Dan, how are you, mate?”
That must be his brother, Dan, judging by the effusive happiness that seeps into his greeting. I take a mouthful of my cooling coffee, then pour a little more vivid orange pulp-rich juice into my champagne. It’s tart and sweet in an odd contrast to the dry champagne, plus the sugary cakes I need to stop gorging on.
“No, no worries at all,” Whit says into his phone. I can almost feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as I look out over the park. It looks like a nice day for a walk. The sky is so blue and the sun vivid, its warmth seeping through the glass.
It feels like a layer of sheer bliss.
