Page 52 of Heimlock

I’m not about to invite her out just for a conversation, so last night I texted an invite to a tasting for one of the caterers on the list Fynn gave me. Tastings are her responsibility and venues are mine, but we’re also meeting with the photographers in a few days. They’ll probably have the best idea about venues.

So today is about food and making some semblance of peace.

Standing outside the simple farm-to-table restaurant, I check my phone repeatedly. Not that Kyrielle is late — I’m twenty minutes early. I’m both anxious to get this started and get it over with. If we can get through this without arguing, it’ll be a miracle.

I don’t want to argue with her. What I want is to recapture the magic of Heimlocks and cozy bars. What I want is to relive sliding inside her body again.

The mere memory of it has blood rushing to my groin with a lightning bolt of lust shooting down my spine. Maybe there’s time to run into the bathroom to take care of this. It could make things easier if—

“Hey, you.” The voice that haunts my dreams interrupts my thoughts.

Inhaling sharply, I whirl. Kyrielle deftly hops over my swooping tail, narrowly avoiding being tripped. For a moment, I can’t speak. Her creamsicle hair is perfectly styled in soft waves over her shoulders. Pink lipstick covers her kissable mouth. Cleavage almost fluffy enough to cushion someone jumping from a tall building. Hips that would look incredible cradling mine.

Correction: hips that do look incredible cradling mine.

It’s infuriating how the memory has never faded, even after all this time.

I swallow hard as she walks closer. When she looks me up and down appreciatively, there’s a single moment in time I let myself pretend she’s here for me; for an ‘us’ that doesn’t exist.

She shatters it by examining the restaurant and saying, “You know what kind of food Fynn likes, right?”

My throat bobs again. “Yeah.” The damn word cracks, making me sound like an adolescent boy. Trying again, I say, “Uh, yeah. He’s a pretty simple guy.”

“Orliana, too.” Kyrielle gives me a small smile. “They’re pretty well suited.”

Not trusting my voice, I motion for her to walk in front of me. Not to look at her ass or anything. Although it does look delicious in those tight shorts.

Stop it.

Pulling the door open, I follow her inside. It’s a simple restaurant, with wooden tables and chairs, painted bucolic scenes in frames, a silent piano in one corner, and a roaring fireplace. A chef, wearing all white, waits for us at a table. Kyrielle marches toward him without a second glance at me.

The chef, whose nametag reads Sebastian, pulls out a chair for her. I sit in the neighboring seat, picking up a printed menu.

“Welcome,” Sebastian says. “When you made the reservation, you mentioned it was for an engagement party?”

“Yes,” Kyrielle murmurs, reading the menu options. “It’s for our friends. They’re about to get engaged, and we’re helping the groom prepare.”

My heart warms at her confidence that Orliana will say yes. Not an ounce of hesitation.

Sebastian looks me over. “Would you like to start with something to drink?”

“Yes, please. A Heimlock if you have it.”

“Two Heimlocks,” Kyrielle says, grinning. Sebastian gives a small bow and backs away.

Pleasure I’ve never felt before warms my blood. Recalling her words all those months ago, I say, “Is this our first official inside joke?”

“I guess so.”

We hold the stare for a beat; I’m the first to look away. Clearing my throat, I read the menu options. “I know he’s obsessed with piglet. No idea why. It’s bizarre to me, eating babies.”

Kyrielle snorts. “I just ate at a restaurant where they serve phoenix wings. Piglet would be the least disturbing thing on the menu.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Which one is that?”

“Euphorlia.”

Letting out a low whistle, I say, “That place is pricey.”