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Right then my chest fills, busting open with those pesky butterflies flapping all over.
Calm down, heart.
A smile permits as I think of the night I attempted to do the same thing for him.
I blink at him, processing his sweet gesture. I should be disgusted by it, but my stomach is fluttering like a girl when she sees her crush.
“Thank you.” I sigh. My hand clasps around the cup, part of my fingers rubbing against his as I take it. An electric shiver runs up my arm from that simple touch, forming goosebumps on my skin.
I pull back, straightening my shoulders as I glance down at the cup, the warmth filming my palm. That’s when I notice the paper hanging from the thin string reads ‘chamomile.’ My stomach rolls and flips, causing my throat to a close like an allergic reaction.
“I couldn’t find ah-wanda. Wagana. I don’t fucking know.” His hand waves at the cup with exasperation.
“Ashwagandha,” I say coolly, not wanting to laugh because his fluency makes it hard for him to form the words. I dab the tea bag up and down in the hot water.
“Yes, her,” he grunts, threading his long fingers through his wavy hair. “I’m going to find her and force her to get a new fucking name.”
That's when I laugh. It shocks meandhim. His brow scrunches as he looks me over with this gleaming expression. He still doesn't laugh along with me—because he’s being dead serious. I only giggle more, shaking my head as I remove the tea bag. Does he really not know it’s a herb and not a person?
I won’t tell him.
I gaze at him, bringing the cup to my lips, the vapors hovering in my eyes as I tip the cup back and let the heat settle on my lips and down my throat. Instinctively, my body sinks, allowing the healing properties to provide me some solace. I take another sip, enjoying the one ingredient I love the most. The honey.
He remembered.
I set my cup on the table before looking at him. He’s holding his gaze on me with a softened look, unlike before when he’s in headman mode. His eyes roam my face like a hawk until he's back at my eyes with a tilt to his head. “You have a beautiful laugh.”
“Do I? It doesn't sound like a donkey snorting?”
The way he stares at me makes me feel exposed, like with just one look he’ll know everything about me. Even my darkest truths.
“No, definitely not like that.” He chuckles lightly. He nods at the cup. “How’s that?”
“It’s wonderful. Thank you.” I give a faint smile, placing one hand under my thigh while the other remains on the cup. I’m not uncomfortable, per se. I’ve never had someone put me first, and it feels selfishly good.
The cinnamon bun sits looking lonely on the small table, so I inch it over to me with.
“What made you think I wanted another cinnamon bun?” Although I do, my belly rumbles in response to the glaze dripping off the side. I don’t indulge in sweets often; it’s a once in a black moon thing.
He hurries the movement, pushing it closer. “Let’s say I had a feeling.”
“I can’t say you're wrong.” I tip my chin, grabbing the fork like it’s my dagger. I’m seconds away from destroying this sugary load of carbs.
He chuckles lightly; the sound is a melody to my ears. “Of course, I’m not.”
I give a bland look with an eye roll. “You’re truly intolerable.” I point out, the smile doesn’t leave my lips.
He releases a breath, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing one foot over the other. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
I place my fork down, facing forward and bring my cup back to my lips to avoid being put on the spot.Thatis uncomfortable. You don’t get through this job talking about yourproblems.
“Don’t ignore me.” He lowers my cup slowly. My first instinct is to snap at him and ‘ask why do you care?’ But I choose not to.
I tilt a brow at him, my finger circling the rim of the cup. “Why did you get into this line of work?” I shift it back to him.
“Another one of your twenty-one questions?”
I shrug. “Seventeen more to go.”