She thought of that final, awkward thank-you he’d offered up back at the station. Those were meant to be his last words to her ever.
“Nothing like the food you used to make,” he added.
That warmed her a little. Lit a hungry little flame inside her. “You liked my food?”
“Course.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
He grunted again and went back to his bowl, while Angel hid a smile and did the same.
They chewed slowly, not speaking for so long that she’d thought the conversation was over.
His voice was quiet when he spoke again, as if he didn’t reallywantto speak, but felt compelled. “Your meals were worlds beyond the last cook’s.”
“I’m not fishing for—”
“Even last night. Dried-out couscous, a sprinkle of this, dab of that, hot water. Brought me back to the Middle East.”
Something about the way he said that tweaked her. “You travel a lot?”
His eyes twitched toward her and away. After a few seconds of silence, she thought he’d shut down again, but he surprised her.
“Couple tours in Iraq. Also traveled to Lebanon and North Africa, where couscous is queen.” His face was softer when he met her eyes. “You ever been there?”
“No.”
“You’d like it. Morocco, I think.”
She nodded. “Bet I would.”
“Full of…” He lifted his hands and gesticulated, as if hunting for words that wouldn’t come. After a second, he tried again. “Smells. Bright, saturated colors.”
“So, the opposite of this place.”
Her comment lifted his lips and she froze, blindsided.
The man’s smile was as mesmerizing as the sparkle of sun on ice—a million blinding diamonds there and gone so fast she wasn’t convinced it was real.
Do that again,she wanted to beg, willing his face to lose that hard, wolfish focus. To relax and brighten.
“Pretty much. It’s big and bright and raucous. Color, sound, smells.”
What was he talking about?
Oh, Morocco. Right. That was why he thought she’d like it. Unsubtle, obvious, in-your-face Angel Smith.
She must have cringed, because he stopped talking and gave her a quizzical look. “No?”
Was this the way he looked into a microscope? Did he even look into microscopes? It occurred to her that despite seeing him trudge off every morning, she had no idea how he spent his days.
She blinked, shook herself internally, and tried to recover. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, I’d love to go one day. I’ve never traveled. Aside from coming here.” She set her bowl down and took a long drink of water, doing her best not to think about Jerkhead Hugh and the research trips he’d taken without her. Someone had to take care of the restaurant and he was the culinary genius, after all. She was just the workhorse. The idiot who’d eaten up every one of his lies, who’d given up her dreams for his.
And here she was, thinking about him…again. No. No way. On a hard exhale, she looked at Ford, trying to picture him in a uniform. “What brought you from there to here, then?”
Stiffly, he lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “Science.” The single word was dull and uninformative, as if designed to deflect all interest pointed his way.
“Science,” she repeated quietly, watching him with a slow nod.
