Like Morana.
Who is currently overcome with bliss sipping hot chocolate out of a teacup, and who no doubt has had her chapter of mental besottedness where it concerns me.
I said I’d leave if my presence here bothered her.
Morana is the kind of woman who would say, “I hope the door hits you on the way out,bye,” unless—of course—she likes me. At least a little bit. But, let’s be honest, she probably likes me a lot more than alittle bit. Her POV is probably raving about how wonderful she thinks I am, how pretty, how breathtaking, and smart, and cool, and funny…
I’m humble, all right? I’m just also realistic, and, don’t worry, I’ll claim my faults later to prove my point on that, but not right now. Right now, I’m enjoying my time with my besotted little future wife while she enjoys hot chocolate in a tea house with me, her not-so-sunshine, still-so-smitten other half.
I reach for one of the two scones on her cute little cream tea tray bearing butter and jam and curd.
She swats my hand. “What do you say if you want something?”
“Please, my liege. Thy peasant starves. He fears his sandwiches shall never come.”
Her expression withers, but she nudges her scone plate toward me regardless. “This is what happens when you order seven full meals at the start of rush.”
My heart flutters for her.
Wow, Morana, make how much you love me more obvious, why don’t ya? First, you don’t tell me to get lost andnowyou’re sharingfood?
I bet her mental love lament went on for ten whole pages.
“I have a science question,” I say.
Her dull gaze drags to me while I cut and butter my scone.
I present my scientific curiosities: “Do you think it’s possible to Lady and the Tramp a sandwich?”
Her wittle nose wrinkles. “Get your disgusting brain out of the gutter.”
“I don’t know if I can. It’s a little gutter hobbit.”
“It needs to go on a little hobbit adventure.”
“To find a better gutter?”
She takes the final scone and butters it while refusing to move her heavy attention off me for even a moment. Her weighty judgment presses.
I love it.
I love whenever Morana looks at me.
She adds lemon curd to her scone and is taking her first bite when my sandwiches begin arriving, two per large plate. With our pot of tea and pot of hot chocolate, the scone plate, and Morana’s side of mac and cheese, we can barely fit everything on the table.
It looks ridiculous.
“This is ridiculous…” Morana mutters under her breath, soulmating my thoughts, while our waitress beams, looking at me.
“Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Bachelor?”
“Yes, another scone for the lady.” I lift my delicacy. “I thieved.”
“Of course! I’ll be right back.”
“For the lady?” Morana’s eye twitches. “I thieved?”
“Like a tramp. Very naughty, me,” I tut, and select the chicken salad sandwich first, otherwise known as the most likely to get soggy.
