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“Sandwiches?” Her voice was faint, and she cleared her throat and looked up to meet his expectant gaze.
“Not just any old sandwiches,” he stated proudly. “These are peanut butter, strawberry jam, and banana sandwiches.”
“Oh.” She shifted her focus to the wineglasses, and her lips twitched. Each expensive, handcrafted crystal glass was filled to the brim with milk.
“Tuck in,” he invited, and stacked a few sandwiches onto his plate. Charity took a couple of slices and sat back, folding her legs crosswise before taking a hearty bite from the generously filled sandwich.
The flavors sang on her tongue, reminding her of her carefree childhood. So much nostalgia in just one bite.
She grinned at him, certain her delight must be plain to see.
“This is so good,” she enthused around a mouthful of bread. The peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and teeth, and she didn’t even care. Instead, she washed it down with some milk and went in for another bite.
He grinned at her. She laughed and impulsively reached across the table to thumb a smudge of jam away from the corner of his mouth. He turned his head to flick the jam off her thumb with the tip of his tongue.
The casual intimacy of their actions astonished her. Even more astounding? The fact that she didn’t mind it at all. She withdrew her hand and, holding his gaze hostage, deliberately sucked the thumb he had just licked into her mouth. His breath caught, and his eyes sparked, then darkened to almost black.
“These are seriously amazing,” she said, her voice embarrassingly throaty after their sexy interplay. “Takes me back to my childhood. Although my mother never added banana. I don’t know why not. It adds so much flavor.”
“Like I said, I used to make these for Hughie and Vicki. I use a different knife for each spread, and they have to cover the entire surface of the slice. Corner to corner.” He grinned wryly, flashing her that adorable dimple. “You may have noticed that Hugh is a little particular.”
She raised her brows at that understatement.
“He has OCD, right?” She instantly regretted the question. Mrs. Cole’s reticence was so ingrained that it felt improper asking him such a personal question.
Miles didn’t seem to mind though. Instead, he nodded and took a swig of milk before talking again.
“Yes. It went untreated for much too long. None of his teachers picked up on it. Or maybe they just ignored it. He was ten before I dragged my mum and Hughie to a clinic and demanded to see a child psychiatrist. Mum had been working such long hours she was happy to just avoid the issue. He was healthy and happy for the most part, but she didn’t see the quirks and didn’t recognize how much they were holding him back. He was being bullied at school because of it and then later, because he was gay. I always knew he was gay, I think before Hugh knew. And it was confusing and distressing for him to be called names he barely understood. It pissed me the hell off that he wasn’t allowed to discover his sexuality in his own time. Kids can be fucking arseholes at times. Anyway, the lack of control at school fed his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“When he was younger—it’s not as bad now—he also suffered from something called brumotactillophobia. Which means he had aversion to his food touching. It took a long time to get him to accept a sandwich like this. With everything smooshed together so haphazardly. But money was tight, and we had to make do with what we had. These were a cheap, tasty meal so Hugh and I sat down one day and discussed how we could make this work for him. Different knives for each spread, no messy oozing on the sides—let me tell you, that’s fucking hard to avoid—the banana slices have to be perfectly uniform, nine on each sandwich and arranged in three rows of three. And of course, they have to be sliced into perfectly even triangles. With three whole and three perfectly halved banana slices on each side.
“I’ve never gotten out of the habit of preparing these sandwiches to Hugh’s exact preference. Even though I can’t remember the last time I made these for him. They bring back some pretty great memories though.”
“You and your siblings are so close,” Charity said, touched by the story and what it said about the man sitting across from her.
“I don’t think we are,” he responded with a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. “Hugh and Vicki are tight, they share a flat and talk all the time. I fed them,
dressed them, disciplined them, helped them with their homework and school projects. I think they find it hard to think of me as a big brother when I was more of a parental figure than our mum. Don’t get me wrong, she tried her best, but she had her hands full keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads. Looking out for the little ones was the least I could do for her.”
“But…who looked out for you?” she asked, her voice tentative. The question seemed to flummox him, and he stared at her for a long moment as if he couldn’t quite fathom the meaning behind her words.
“I didn’t need…”
“You were eleven,” she interrupted.
“I was old for my age. By that time, I’d already spent a year taking care of my terminally ill father, while helping mum with the kids.”
That was heartbreaking. He had never had a childhood. And as far as she could tell he rarely allowed himself time to let loose now either.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Fun?”
“You know, fun. Something you do for the sheer enjoyment of it.”
“I have my audiobooks. And I like to hike. And the thrill of a new acquisition can’t be beaten.”
“When did you start listening to your fantasy books?”
