Page 26 of Waiting for You

"You are. I've always been this well-mannered."

"That's objectively false." I stepped past him into the dim room. "You were aggressively unmannered."

I delivered the insult, but it rang hollow the second it left my tongue. He had always been mannered. He was the man who held doors on reflex, walked on the street side of the pavement, quietly checked with the table before ordering appetizers. He'd always been this considerate, and I was just teasing him out of habit.

Something fluttered loose in my chest at how easily we'd slipped back into our old rhythm, the two of us needling each other with no real venom behind it.

"You're only saying that," he argued, stepping inside and letting the door click shut, "because you're trying to villainize me."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

He dropped his chin and widened his dark eyes into the grave expression of a prosecuting attorney. "Because you're inherently evil. I can't fathom the dark machinations inside the mind of an evil woman."

A laugh burst out of me, and I pointed an accusing finger at his chest. "You're insane."

"Hey, I'm not the evil one here."

We moved deeper into the cramped space. The wooden racks stretched along the far brick wall, hundreds of dusty bottles stacked in their labeled sections. I spotted the sommelier's bright chalk marks on two bottles near the back corner. The light was low and warm, reducing the reception to a muffled heartbeat.

Xavier stepped up to the rack and started reading the labels.

"Did you develop a palate for wine over the years?" he asked.

"No." I scoffed. "I still think it's pretentious."

"You were literally drinking champagne. I watched you do it."

I opened my mouth to argue.

"Don't," he warned, not bothering to look up from the reds. "I saw you holding the bottle."

I snapped my mouth shut and dropped my gaze to the floorboards. I'd been ready to lie straight to his face, which was stupid. He'd always had an infuriating ability to see through whatever walls I tried to throw up.

"Fine. I drink wine," I conceded. "I just don't enjoy it. The whole culture's overrated."

"Then why force yourself to drink it?"

"Just because you don't enjoy something doesn't mean you refuse to consume it."

He slowly turned, arching a single dark eyebrow, his chin tilted in disbelief.

I scrambled for a defense. "I can't think of a single example."

"You used to hate caviar."

"I still hate caviar," I shot back, my voice spiking on the last syllable. "I refuse to eat it. I haven't eaten it. I never will."

"Good." He nodded. "I'm glad you're holding the line on that one."

"What else?" I challenged, folding my arms.

He tilted a dusty bottle toward the sconce, squinting to read the vintage year, his mouth pulling to the side in thought.

"Vanilla," he announced.

My face dropped. "I still hate vanilla."

"You just said you still hate it, but the guilt says you eat it."