“What’s that?”
“Coriander.”
“I didn’t ask—”
She smiled. “You don’t have to. Is there anything else?” She put her hands behind her, twisting her greenstone ring, hoping that this might be the moment. The end of the second week. Two lots of seven. It might be auspicious to someone into numbers. She had no idea. She made a mental note to check her numerology book later.
“No, nothing else, thank you.”
“Right… right,” she repeated, unable to think of anything that could keep her staring at the man who lingered in her mind long after he’d left the café. And at night, when she couldn’t sleep in the hot small hours when she sipped her water, trying to cool her body and her mind. Water. She twisted mid step and picked up a carafe of water from the table. She turned back to him with a smile to top up his water. The smile faltered when she realized he hadn’t drunk any. She topped it up anyway. A drop spilled on the table. She wiped it away with a cloth and then noticed that he’d piled all the coriander to one side.
“Don’t you like coriander?” She felt strangely hurt. You didn’t normally get coriander in a Caesar salad.
“No. It takes like soap.”
“Soap? No, it doesn’t. I wouldn’t have given it to you if it did!”
His look softened slightly at her words. “It’s genetic. Coriander tastes like soap to some people. And, no, I dare say you wouldn’t. You don’t look the type.”
“Type?” Amber shifted her weight from one of her hips to the other, the personal comment making her indignation disappear. “What type do I look?”
He didn’t answer for a moment and she felt the burn of his eyes on every part of her as his gaze swept over her. “You look the helpful type.”
The burn lessened instantly, deflating the sensuality that his gaze had made her feel. “Helpful? I look helpful?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Is there something wrong with that?”
She felt her lips tighten and she gave the table another quick, unnecessary wipe and picked up his half-drunk coffee. “Of course not. Nothing wrong with that, I’m a waitress and waitresses should be helpful.”
Then she felt his hand over hers and she drew in a sharp breath, their eyes hot on each other. “But you’re also an artist.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw your work in the gallery.”
“How did you know it was mine?”
“It had your name on it.”
“You know my name,” she breathed.
He nodded to her name tag. “Yes.”
“Oh. Did you like them?”
“Very much.”
“Which ones did you like the best?”
“The flowers. The small ones. They’re a series.”
“Oh yes.” She grinned. “They’re all sold. The gallery owner said…” She trailed off.
“Yes, I bought them.”
“All?”
“All.”
