I grin. “Oh, I never joke about the king. Or leather footwear, for that matter.”
“Are you saying that the actual king—of England—has a pair of my slippers?”
His lush mouth hangs open in surprise and it takes every bit of self-control not to hurl myself across this table and suck his tempting lower lip into my mouth.
“That is exactly what I’m saying, Gael. His Majesty’s birthday was a few months ago, and he rather enjoyed them. Said they were his favourite gift.”
“He probably received gifts from heads of state all over the planet. Why would you give him my simple slippers?”
“Because, with your brushed fleece lining they’re like a warm hug.”
He wrinkles his nose and I know I’m sunk.
“I don’t know how I feel about the monarchy being made comfortable by my handiwork,” he says, holding out his hand.
I laugh, taking it in mine as Oliver approaches with dinner.
“Dammit,” Oliver says, eyeballing our entwined fingers as he aggressively sets the plates on the table.
“Is there an issue here?” I ask, concerned.
“Yes, there’s an issue,” he tosses back, gesturing between me and Gael. “I had a five-dollar bet on the line with our cook that you wouldn’t come around until after the new year.”
I try to approximate an expression of sorrow but fear I may have failed. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, you better be.”
He stalks off with a smile on his face and I turn to Gael, his eyes wide with shock.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, bringing his hands to his cheeks. “We were the subject of a five-dollar bet. That’s pretty big. That means they think we’re a good match.”
We share the goofiest pair of smiles across the table, then dig into dinner. It’s some kind of thick pork chop with a side of green beans. It smells divine, though…
“Has someone put bacon in the green beans?” I ask, using my fork to lift out the offending piece.
“They do that here,” Gael says, snatching the bacon from the tines of my fork with the same fingertips that come to me in my dreams. He pops the bacon into his mouth and closes his eyes, chewing through a satisfied sigh.
“You stole the food off my fork,” I say, though the accusation is light.
“You were complaining about your bacon, which is illegal in Texas.”
“I fear you’re making that up.”
“Probably,” he says, right before stealing another shard of bacon from the pile of green beans on my plate.
I reach across and grab a sliver of bacon from his green beans, popping it into my mouth before he has a chance to snatch it back.
Oh my.
“Well, now. That’s not so bad.”
“Try the green beans,” he orders, gesturing with his fork.
I do as he requests, and… “Oh. This is rather tasty. I’ll have to let the chef back home know.”
“Oh,the chef back home.” He snorts, completely unserious.
