She laughs and my heart does a little jump. It's the first real laugh I've heard from her in days.
“So humble, too,” she says.
“Humility is overrated.”
“Noted.” She rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. Then she leans forward with her chin on her hand. “Tell me something I don't know about you.”
I furrow my brow, a little caught off-guard. It’s not the kind of thing I’ve come to expect from my all-business, no-nonsense wife. “Like what?”
“Anything. Something that isn't about the family business or security protocols or any of this.” She waves her fork around. “Something normal.”
“Okay.” I pause for a second. “I hate olives.”
“Which kind?”
“All kinds, but mainly the ones with the red things in the middle.”
“Pimentos.”
“Yeah, whatever. They suck.”
“So that’s your thing. Olives.”
“You asked for something normal. That's normal.” I stretch my arms overhead and don’t miss the way her eyes trace over them. “My grandmother used to put them in everything. Salads, pasta dishes, chicken dishes, sandwiches. I'd pick them out one by one, and she'd smack my hand and tell me I was insulting her cooking.”
“Did you stop?”
“No. I just got faster.”
She grins. “Such a rebel.”
“Yep. From a young age.” I nod toward her. “Your turn. Give me something.”
She taps her fingertips on the counter. “I can't whistle.”
I let out a snort. “What? Everyone can whistle.”
“Not me. I've tried. It just... doesn't work.” She demonstrates, her lips twisting tight. Her face turns red, and her eyes fly open wide like she’s taking a huge breath to blow out birthday candles on a cake. But what comes out is more of a breathy hiss than a whistle. “See?”
I can’t help but snicker. “Jesus, that's tragic.”
“I know. Luna teases me about it constantly.” Her expression softens at the mention of her sister. “She can do that loud whistle, you know, the one with two fingers? The kind that stops taxis. I've never been more jealous of anyone in my life.”
“I get it. That’s a crucial life skill.”
“Yes! It’s essential. I'll never be able to hail a cab in an emergency.”
“I'll teach you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You think you can succeed where decades of practice have failed? Quite epically, might I add?”
“I'm very confident.”
“There's that Molloy humility again,” she says with a grin.
“What can I tell you? I know my skills.”
“I used to want to be a marine biologist,” she blurts out suddenly.
