“Like mallard?”
The massive grin that splits across his face comes out of nowhere. “With an ‘i,’” he says.
Something about this inexplicably tugs at my brain.
Nico searches my face, and his grin grows even wider. Jesus, it’s like staring directly into the sun.
“Anyway,” he says, “It’s pronouncedmy-ard. It’s French. Named after a French dude, a chemist. Louis Camille Maillard.” He pronounces his name with an awful approximation of a French accent.
Téo eventually finishes up and throws everything onto platters. The kitchen and front of house staff descend upon it. We let everyone take their share first before loading up our plates.
We take it out to the front and dig in.
“Holy shit,” I find myself saying again. “It’s honestly shocking how something so easy and boring can be so incredible.”
“And that,” Nico declares around a mouthful of eggs, “is what I think you big-brain writer people call ametaphor.”
“Nuh uh,” I tell him.
He turns the car off. “Uh huh.”
“Nope.”
“What’s wrong?” He’s grinning.
“It starts with ‘this is a lame cliché’ and ends with ‘I don’t want to do this,’” I tell him, but he’s already out of the car and on my side, opening my door.
He holds his hand out. “C’mon.”
“No.”
“Get out of the car, Annie.”
“I refuse.”
“Get out of the fuckin’ car, Annie.”
“N—”
He reaches in, unbuckles my seatbelt, scoops me up, and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
I’m in the middle of screeching when I feel his teeth sink into the side of my hip. “Shush,” he says.
“Did you just bite me?”Do it again.
“What, Sister Annie isn’t allowed to eat?”
“Sister Annie isn’t eating anything!”
“Can I eat Sister Annie?”
“Nico,” I groan.
“She wouldn’t have to do anything,” he adds on conversationally, while carrying me like a bag of potatoes into a building labeledBachata Soul Durhamalongside dozens and dozens of other couples. “It’ll get messy, but I’d take care of all the prep work and clean up.”
“Oh my god.”
“With my tongue,” he adds.
