Page 135 of In Somnis

“Eat this,” he commands. “Before the outfit, before the spiral, before whatever you were about to say about deranged picnic people.”

I take the sandwich with a frown. “Nobody has ever needed to tell me to eat in my entire life.”

He gives me an expectant look until I bite into the sourdough. Once I start chewing, he takes his own from the counter.

“You made good sandwiches,” he says around a mouthful.

“I know.”

“Little arrogant.”

“Little accurate.”

His mouth curves, and he looks sideways at me, and there’s something in his expression that isn’t the easy warmth or the dry humor, but I can’t quite place it.

He takes another bite, and his eyes actually close. “Okay, what is in this?”

“Turkey, Brie, caramelized onions, arugula, fig jam on sourdough.”

“We need to put these on the menu,” he says, turning the sandwich over as if he’s reverse engineering it. “Lunch service or to-go. People would actually come in for these.”

“You’re in inn-brain on your day off?”

“I never have a day off.” He finishes the last of it and shrugs.

“Because you don’t want to or because you can’t?”

“Because it’s my dream,” he says easily. “It’s going to be mine if I can pull it off.”

“You’ll pull it off.”

He gives me another look. “You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.” I point at him with the last of my sandwich. “You got me a date, didn’t you? That’s pulling off the impossible.”

“Ha.” He grins, the eyebrow piercing glinting when his brow lifts. “So it is a date.”

“I walked into that.”

“Little bit.” He pushes off the counter and drops onto a furniture box, making himself at home. “Go on then. Give me the fashion show. I’ll eat the rest of the sandwiches while I judge, so you don’t have to spiral if you should bring them to the date or not. Wouldn’t want you to look like a deranged picnic person.”

“You’re going to be terrible at this.”

“Probably,” he agrees, already reaching for another one. “Go.”

I gather everything from the living room and disappear into the bedroom, trying on the first thing I grab, which is a long maroon sweater and black stockings.

When I come back out, Nevan is mid-bite. He looks at me, then looks back at his sandwich. “Nope.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Didn’t need to. You wore that Saturday.” He takes another bite, completely unruffled.

I look down at myself, then back at him—the flannel, the worn jeans, the lack of any attempt whatsoever. “Says you. When did you last vary your outfit?”

“I’m an outfit repeater. Same food orderer, music relistener, and movie rewatcher.” He shrugs. “I know what I like.” He twirls a finger in the general direction of my bedroom. “But you need something more special. Not everyday stuff.”

“Fine,” I mutter, retreating.