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Chapter Four
Her aunt Eden arrived with the food a short while later. Along with bowls and tableware, she’d included a still warm baguette, and a pitcher of water and glasses. After her exit, Raven ladled the steaming gumbo into a bowl and topped it with a helping of rice.
Watching her, Brax asked, “You don’t eat the rice separately?”
“I suppose you could, but this is the traditional way.”
“Okay.” Mimicking her actions, he filled his bowl with both gumbo and rice, and followed her outdoors. There was a small wrought-iron table at the far end of the verandah, shaded by the branches of a large tree. She walked back inside to get the water and glasses. When she returned he was standing by her chair.
“A gentleman always assists a lady with her seating,” he explained.
Rather than argue, she allowed it. As she sat,the feel of his presence behind her gave way to a rising awareness she was determined to ignore. No man had the right to affect her this way after meeting him only hours ago.
Once he took his seat, she closed her eyes for a moment to say grace. When she opened them, his were on hers. His expression was hard to discern. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t want to be accused of being judgmental again.”
“Say what you were going to say.” No man had the right to be so exasperating, either.
“Just noting that you say grace and yet you steal from people.”
“Sinners are supposed to pray. Pass me the baguette, please.”
He complied.
Annoyed, she broke off a section of the bread and placed it on the charger beneath her bowl before dipping her spoon into the savory goodness that was gumbo. As she took her first taste, she noted his tentative movements, but she kept her comments to herself and waited for his reaction to the food.
It didn’t take long. “This is very good.”
“Aunt Vana’s one of the best cooks in the city.”
“It’s spicier than it looks though. Especially this sausage. Is that what this meat is?”
“It’s andouille. The Germans make it. I suppose in other places it would be called sausage but here, it’s simply andouille.”
They ate silently. He poured himself water from the pitcher. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” Once her glass was filled she said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Their attention lingered on each other. Raven broke the contact. “So, what kind of food do you eat in Boston?”
“Nothing like this.”
To her surprise, she enjoyed the easy smile he showed. It softened the harsh set planes of his face beneath the black close-cropped beard and eased a bit of the tension. He was definitely a feast for the female eye. Not that she cared.
He continued, “Back home, we eat hens, beef, root vegetables. Lots of beans and fish, and lots of soups to get us through the cold months.”
“Sounds a bit boring.”
“Compared to this, very much so.”
“Glad you like it.”
“I do.”
They were staring at each other again. Raven swore she wasn’t attracted to this man, nor did she want to be, yet something unexplainable was taking root in spite of that and infusing her with a different type of annoyance.
