Page 17 of The Trick of It

Her expression had melted into bemusement, her big eyes blinking softly as she watched a third piece, this one a ball of shriveled honeydew, vanish between his lips. She sank slowly back into the chair, seemingly at a loss.

“It grows on you,” he commented, tilting his head to the side. “What’s that one? The rectangle?”

“Pineapple,” she muttered, nudging the tin toward him as he made a flourishing show of taking it up.

“Four,” he said, chewing, swallowing, and then blowing out a cool breath over his tingling tongue. “I expect I won’t even feel the last one. Do you want to choose it?”

Her gaze tightened a fraction, her mouth pursing slightly. “No.”

He gave her a wide smile. “Suit yourself. Oho, coconut cream or candied lime peel? How’s a man to choose?”

“Eat them both,” she suggested through her teeth.

So he did.

Gloating in her direction the entire time.

It was worth the blaze in his mouth. And his throat. And likely in his stomach to come back and haunt him later.

More than worth it.

“Where’s that coat, then?” he asked, smacking his lips together like he’d just enjoyed a plate of caviar. “Let’s beat the sunset, shall we?”

She batted her lashes, assuming a look of innocence. “But you’ve broken the deal,” she said sweetly. “You ate cream, there at the end.”

He paused, her words taking a moment to slot into place, clicking like a rusty key in his brain. “What?!” he demanded. “The bloody coconut cream?! We both know that isn’t what you meant.”

“It is what I said,” she pointed out, giving a simpering, little pout.

“Seph!” he barked, getting that grin back into place.

“Fine, fine,” she said, giving a light sigh and floating up out of her chair to swish away in search of her coat. “But you still failed the challenge.”

“Tell that to the fire I’m breathing,” he cried, coming half out of his chair as she vanished down the hall. “Harpy.”

“Child,” she called back melodically.

He wrinkled up his nose and looked down at the tin. He grabbed a fistful more of those devil fruits and stuffed them into his pockets. Damn her.

She came back looking distracted and sufficiently bundled up. It was getting properly cold now.

Rhys himself had only worn a scarf and his normal inside clothes. But he’d always run hot.

“Where’s the envelope?” she asked, taking up the invitation to put it in her pocket. “Ah, here.”

He frowned. “Why bring the envelope?”

“It’s likely got clues on it too,” she reasoned, gesturing toward the door and ushering him out and down the stairs. “There are also those symbols on the front of the invite card. And it never says what time to be at the Priory.”

He paused, just short of the door as she turned and withdrew a ring of keys from her skirts to lock up the storefront.

“Midnight,” he told her. “That’s on my card. Pretty sure it’s midnight.”

“Oh?” she said, crumpling her features just a little to force the last turn of the key, which groaned in protest. “I need to oil that. Are you certain it isn’t ten o’clock? The clue in the riddle …”

“It’s midnight,” he assured her, turning and hopping off the veranda. “I’d prefer it to be ten, though. That’s my favorite number.”

“People don’t have favorite numbers,” she said, taking a dainty step off the stairs in direct opposition of his choice. “Let’s take the dirt path. It’s faster.”