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“In other words, the toast is basically Elvis.”
On a small chortle, he nods. “Ceart.”
“Is that Irish or Spanish for correct?”
“Irish,” he lightly chuckles and picks up his fork, prompting me to follow suit.
“I hope you know there’s no way I can eat all this food. At least not in one sitting.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to sit again.”
The waggling of his eyebrows has me blushing and desperate to bury my attention in my plate to prevent him from seeing it. Picking what to taste first is difficult, yet after one bite of the eggs, there’s no hesitation to try it all or to try it quickly. To my surprise, the conversations regarding food remain; however, it expands once more into a cultural realm. Listening and learning about worlds different than my own is fascinating. And fun. And eye-opening to the notion that just because someone is younger than you doesn’t mean that they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.
Towards my final bites, post a language lesson on the different terms used for breakfast depending on where you are in the country he was born in, I warmly insist, “You are not doing dishes. Don’t even try.”
Tate wipes his dirty hands on his napkin and innocently shrugs. “Alright.”
His lack of argument immediately sends red flags that push me to ask, “Really? No pushback on this? Was this your plan all along? Make a huge mess for someone else to have to clean up?”
“I loathe doing the dishes.” The sight of his smile returning has another wave of relief blanketing itself over me. “I always have. We’re talkin’ about since I was lad. And my flat mate has the nasty habit of just leaving them in the sink for days knowing it’ll eventually drive me bloody insane enough to just do the damn things rather than wait for them to be done, but I don’t enjoy doing dishes like I do cooking. But I also don’t expect someone to clean up after me, either.”
It’s impossible to deny the perfect segue to a question I’ve been avoiding.
Not because it’s rude.
Okay, it’s a little rude, but I need to know.
I need to know just how above “legal” he is.
If he like just graduated high school this month, he has got to go.
No exceptions.
“And um,” I casually lower myself to my feet with my half-eaten plate in hand, “how long ago was that?”
“That she left dishes in the sink?”
Eye contact is avoided during my stroll into the kitchen. “That you were a lad.”
“Are you trying to ask me how old I am without directly asking?”
Yes.
And there goes the hope I had that I was being fucking clever about it.
When I don’t answer, my attention is summoned on a stern, “Harper.”
The dish clinks against the countertop split seconds before I allow my gaze to meet his.
“You want to know something about me, simply ask. I told you I liked honesty. I meant it.”
Kicking my chin upward and pushing my shoulders slightly back is followed by a meek, “How old are you exactly, Tate?”
“Twenty-four,” he effortlessly answers at the same time he folds his hands together in his lap. “Twenty-five in a couple of months.”
“Twenty-four?!” I screech like a possessed housecat. “Twenty-four?!”
“Practically twenty-five.”
