"Could be anything," I winked, "It's supposed to be veal, but…" I shrugged conspiratorially, "sometimes, it's made from pork, beef, chicken…" I left it dangling there, watching him grin.
He moved his knife back and forward, "You almost had me." He cut off a piece and ate it. "Definitely veal," he proclaimed.
I snickered, then sobered and took my first bite of a real Schnitzel in years. I closed my eyes and allowed the oily breadcrumbs to dissolve in my mouth. I moaned when I started to chew. "So good."
"Good." Gideon watched me intently with a strange expression on his face that I couldn't place; it looked almost pained.
"What?" I asked with my mouth full, forgetting my manners.
"You," his eyes darkened, "I could watch you for days."
Heat rose into my cheeks, and I looked down. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't be too nice to me."
He reached across the table and placed his thumb underneath my chin, "You deserve nice. Hell, you deserve more than nice, Inga. Let me help you."
With the taste of veal in my mouth, and the aroma of yeasty bread in the warm air, it was all too easy to return his gaze, to lower my defenses. And suddenly I wantedthis. I wanted someone to take care of me. To be nice to me.
"Okay."
"Okay?" He looked shocked.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Okay. You may be nice to me."
"Alright." As if to make sure I didn't rescind, he focused on his food, cut another bite, and placed it in his mouth. God, this man was actually sexy eating. My blush deepened. I had no idea where that thought came from. It seemed that by lowering my defenses, I had opened the floodgates.
Our conversation slowed as the food soothed something deep inside me, hunger, yes, but something spiritual too. An ache I hadn't known I carried until it began to fade.
And all the while, Gideon watched me, as if seeing me happy made him happy too.
Our lunch was topped off with a slice of real cheesecake, and this time, Gideon openly admitted that this was the best cheesecake he'd ever had. I couldn't help it, but I chuckled, "Maybe one day I'll make you some cheesecake. One that will leave this one in the dust."
He finished what was left of mine, wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back, and shocked both of us by saying, "Darlin', even if it is only half as good as this one, I'll marry you."
Berlin — July 17, 1948, Saturday
I walkedher to work afterward. Her steps were light—almost floating—like the good food had filled her bones with something weightier than calories. Something closer to hope. She kept glancing at me from the corner of her eye, almost shy, almost glowing, and every time she did, something in my chest tightened until breathing felt like a goddamn luxury.
At the bar's back entrance, she paused. The lunchtime crowds bustled past us, cars rattled over the cobblestones, GIs laughed too loudly, music drifted from an open window. But she didn't look at any of it.
She looked at me.
Right at me.
"I had a wonderful time," she said softly, with that hint of accent I had come to crave. "Yeah," I answered, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. "Me too."
For a second, it felt like the world slowed down just for us, like the ruins stood still, like the war had never happened, like she might let me kiss her right there under that sun-faded awning.
But then she smiled, a small, beautiful, uncertain thing, and slipped inside.
I stood there for another full minute like an idiot, grinning. Warm. Too warm.
And then the memory hit me like a punch.
Darlin', even if it's only half as good, I'll marry you.
