Page 57 of If You Claim Me

“Ah, I see. Well then…” I pull the plate back toward me. “We’ll eat them in homage to Flip, who hates wasted food.”

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” Connor asks, envy in his tone.

“Almost anything. I wouldn’t sleep with him, but we protect each other.”

“Why didn’t you ask him for help with your apartment?”

“I didn’t want it to change our friendship. But his story is not mine to tell.”

“Something happened, though.” Connor’s eyes stay locked on mine, probing.

I nod, but say nothing else.

“Between the two of you?”

I can’t tell if it’s curiosity, jealousy, or something else that’s driving his questions.

“No, before he knew me.”

His shoulders ease.

“On the count of three.” I dig my fork into my steak tartare.

He does the same, and we both take a bite. I’m glad the portion is small, and I only have two more bites before I decide it’s enough to feel like it’s not a complete waste.

The courses that follow are all incredible, each sample better than the last. The seared scallops are to die for, and so are the potato puffs and braised carrots.

And then they bring out three types of gelato.

“I already know which one is the winner before I’ve even tasted them,” I declare. “But I’m not telling you until we’ve tried them all.”

Connor shifts sideways, one arm draped over the back of his chair.

I like this version of him, and I want more of it.

“Which one would you like to try first?”

I shake my head. “That’s too easy. You pick the first one, and we taste it at the same time.”

He digs into one that looks like chocolate, so I do the same. We pop the bites at the same time. It’s smooth and creamy, but also fudgy and rich with notes of salt and caramel.

“Thoughts?” Connor asks.

“Delicious.”

“Agreed.”

We set our spoons in the glass and move to the next one.

It’s yellow with purple ribbons through it. The tart flavor bursts on my tongue. “Lavender lemon?”

“Hemi would love this, wouldn’t she?” Connor goes back for a second spoon. “Dallas always brings her lavender lattes.”

“He does. They’re her favorite. And peach anything.”

He moves to the pink scoop of gelato between us. Instead of bringing his spoon to his own lips, he lifts it to mine. I open for him, and the sweet-tart taste of strawberry, threaded through with vanilla, melts over my tongue, sharp and creamy and luscious. My eyes fall closed, and I hum contentedly.

“This one’s my favorite,” Connor murmurs.