I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s see how long he stays on your side after that.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, just before she took another bite, she said very calmly, “I’ll tell him you’re a cannibal.”
I stopped chewing.
Blinking at her, scandalized, I sat there with the sandwich in my mouth, completely immovable. I finally forced myself to swallow, the effort visible.
“How do you expect me to keep eating after that?”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
I stared at my sandwich for a long moment, trying to reclaim the appetite she’d just annihilated. She watched me, completely unrepentant, and took another bite of her own food.
Between sips of water and stolen spring rolls, we talked about work. The press conference we’d done a few days ago had helped. The headlines had shifted from “disaster” to “recovery,” the story now about resilience instead of failure.
The restaurant was almost ready to reopen.
A soft launch this time. Smaller. Quieter.
By the time we’d worked through the containers, only one thing was left.
A single chocolate cupcake, sitting at the bottom of the last bag.
She stared at it, eyes narrowed. I watched her, amused, already knowing what was coming.
“Do you want to split it?” she asked.
There was no way I was going to let the chance to share something with her slip away.
Not this time.
“Yes.”
She groaned, slumping back against the couch. “Why couldn’t you be one of those people who hates dessert? Or bought two cupcakes?”
“I’m stingy.”
She shot me a look that said she didn’t believe a word of it.
We each took a spoon.
Dug into the small cupcake.
She took her bite first, and her eyes fluttered closed. Her whole face relaxed into something soft, something purely content.
“This is the best cake I’ve ever had,” she said, and I couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t do anything but watch her.
Then I remembered my own spoon, raised it to my mouth, and took the bite.
The sweetness hit me like a wave.
Overwhelming.
Cloying.