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“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
“Let’s eat.”
“You neglected to ask if I was hungry.”
I shrugged one shoulder, liking that I could see a glimmer of a smile, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. “I’m rude like that. Where’s your favorite place for breakfast around here?”
“How do you feel about Portuguese cuisine?” she asked.
“Love it.”
“There’s a café not far.”
“Walking distance?”
Nem rolled her eyes. “A little exercise won’t hurt you, Ares.”
I wanted to thump my chest and remind her only yesterday she’d said I was “a walking, talking cover model for a romance book.”
“Here we are,” she said, several blocks farther than I’d anticipated. “Café Porto.”
“Original name.”
When Nem glared at me and her nostrils flared, I decided to make it my mission to see her do it as often as possible. Fuck, it was sexy.
“What’s good here?” I asked once we were seated.
“I’ve never had anything that wasn’t.”
“Can you narrow it down a little, or should I just ask them to bring one of everything on the menu?”
I wanted to raise my arms in victory when my comment earned me another nostril flare.
“Should I order thegal-A-oor themaya-da-latte?”
No nostril flare, but she did roll her eyes. “It’s pronouncedgal-own.” She enunciated the syllables like I had.
“Did I get the other one right?”
Nem shook her head. “Not even close, but you’ll want thegalãoanyway.”
“I’m surprised you like this place. It looks like everything has ham in it.”
“You’ve never eaten Portuguese food, have you?” she asked, folding her arms.
“Sure, I have. Paella is one of my favorites.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“C’mon, Nem. Tell me what I should order.”
“Thetosta mistabut ask for it onpão de deus.”
“What’s that?”
“Essentially, a Portuguese croissant.”
