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She narrows her eyes and grumbles for show. “Fine. I acquiesce. Also, you look cute, mushroom man,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “Nice jeans.”
“I know how to follow directions.” I jerk my gaze behind me as if I’m checking out my own rear, which is not easy to do. “These are the ones you wanted, right? The ones that show off my ass?”
She spins a finger in the universal sign for turn around and show me the goods, and I give her a full 360. She taps her chin like a judge on a reality show, before saying in a hushed announcer’s voice, “David, I’d have to say that’s quite a yummy can. What do you think, Genevieve? Oh yes, a lovely tush by all measures of tushiness.”
“Tush? Can? Are we living in the sixties?” I ask with a laugh.
“If we were, I would say you have a very nice hiney.”
I wince. “Oof. Total mood killer.”
“Agreed. Hiney is the worst.” She wrinkles her nose as her big brown gaze drifts toward the café’s red-and-white-striped awning. “Aside from mushrooms.”
The café’s only a year old and still finding its legs, but it’s a cool spot. Cozy and relaxed, but with an artsy, romantic vibe.
A hand-printed sign hangs beneath the café’s awning, and she tilts her head to study it with a wary frown.
“What, exactly, is foraged food?”
“It’s like. . . scavenged food. You scour the fields and forests for tasty treats. Or really, Abe does, and he cooks his bounty in interesting ways, and it’s awesome.”
She looks doubtful. “How is this a thing? In New York?”
“He does the scavenging in New Jersey, I think. And everything is a thing. Especially in New York.”
“But should it be?”
“It should. Why not?”
“Because I feel like mushrooms should not be a thing. Mushrooms live in the dirt.”
“All vegetables live in the dirt. What do you have against the earth?”
“Oh, stop. I’m a tree-hugger just like you,” she says as we make our way toward the restaurant’s front door. “I’m assuming you’re still going to make all your old cars more fuel-efficient and stuff once you’re in L.A.?”
I shrug, not wanting to think about the move. “Mother Earth is cool. I’d like to keep her around for a while. Which reminds me—we should go camping before I leave.”
“At the Four Seasons?” There’s that deadpan Ruby.
I answer just as matter-of-factly. “In the woods. That’s where people camp—in the out of doors.”
“Maybe you camp out of doors. But I believe in camping at the Four Seasons.” Her eyes light up like a slot machine. “In fact, that sounds like a really cool ‘new’ thing to do. I know the list says try something, like a new food, but maybe this is what Claire meant. She knew me well, after all, and I’ve never been to the Four Seasons.”
My shoulders tense for a few seconds at the mention of my sister’s name, but I roll them out and let it go.
I pause with my hand on the door. “You ready?”
Inside, a mix of Art Nouveau and 1950s decorations fill the walls above the mismatched tables, but Ruby looks like she’s marching to the guillotine.
She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, centering herself. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
“You’re going to love this place,” I say, pulling open the door and ushering her ahead of me. I set a hand on her back as we head to the counter.
Her sexy back.
Because backs are sexy. They’re an unsung part of woman’s anatomy and I’d be willing to sing the praises of Ruby’s all night long.
We reach the counter and she studies the chalkboard menu while I do my best not to think about brushing kisses down her spine.
“All right. I’ve got my big girl . . .” She flicks her gaze at me, and I expect her to say panties, but she says, “bra on. Which platter do I want to try?”
“It doesn’t matter. Mushrooms are all good,” I say, then lay it on thick, doing my best to tantalize her with a phone-sex-voice ode to fungi. “Cremini. Oyster. Chanterelle. Shiitake. Porcini. They’re heavenly.”
She bites her lip and hums low in her throat. “Wow. Next you’ll be whispering sweet nothings about hummus, peppers, and carrots too,” she says in a husky, teasing voice.
Trouble is, it sounds too fucking good. Too sexy, even though we’re both clearly joking.
Thankfully, Abe chooses that moment to saunter from the stove to the counter. A Brooklyn foodie to the core with his burlap apron, ginger hair, and matching goatee, I’m pretty sure Abe is prohibited from living in any other borough.
“Hey, Jesse, good to see you. Glad you brought a friend this time,” he says. I make the introductions, explaining it’s Ruby’s first time trying mushrooms, and Abe’s lips stretch in an excited grin. “You’re going to love them. At first sight. First taste.” He laughs. “Why don’t I whip up a sautéed sampler for you guys, with some couscous and pickled veggies on the side for a palate cleanser in between varietals?”
