“That’s telling me nothing,” he says pleasantly.
I hesitate, then shrug. “She’s got curves.”
It comes out flat, like a neutral observation, which is exactly how I intend it. Rupert’s knife pauses anyway. Not stops. Just slows, like he’s clocked something interesting and is filing it away for later amusement.
“They suit her,” I add, because apparently my mouth hasn’t received the memo to shut up.
Rupert makes a soft, pleased noise but doesn’t look at me. He tips the garlic into the pan, the sizzle sharp and immediate, and the smell shifts from acrid to sweet. Salvageable. Just.
“She didn’t back down,” I say, watching the steam curl up. “Most people do. They either apologise or get louder. She did neither.”
“How terribly inconvenient,” Rupert murmurs.
“She stood there,” I continue, frowning at nothing in particular, “and argued back like she had all the time in the world. Like my temper was something she could simply wait out.”
Rupert stirs, slow and unhurried. “Ah.”
“That calm,” I add. “It’s infuriating.”
“And effective,” he says.
I take another swallow of beer. The image comes back without invitation. Her chin tipped up slightly. The way she’d held my gaze, green eyes steady, like she was timing me rather than reacting.
“She gave as good as she got,” I say instead. “Didn’t blink. Didn’t soften it. Just met me head on.”
Rupert turns the hob down and finally looks at me.
“You are describing a woman who refused to be intimidated,” he says mildly.
“I’m describing an argument.”
“And yet,” he replies, returning to his onions, “you sound invigorated.”
“I’m irritated.”
“You’re animated.” He smiles, entirely unconvinced. “And she sounds memorable,” he adds.
“She called my sauce—”
“I know, I know. But she got under your skin.”
Rupert turns back to the hob at last, as if remembering that food is the point. He adds mushrooms to the pan without ceremony, then pepper, the sharp smell cutting through the air. A splash of oil follows, then herbs pinched between his fingers and rubbed together out of habit.
The kitchen smells better almost immediately.
“So,” he says, carefully casual, “do you find her attractive?”
The question lands badly. Too direct. My first instinct is to swat it away, which is usually a sign I shouldn’t.
“That’s not relevant,” I say.
Except my head immediately fills with unhelpful detail. The way she held my gaze. The way she didn’t step back when I loomed. The fact that she stood there like she had nowhere else to be. None of which has anything to do with attraction. Obviously.
Rupert hums and keeps cooking, which somehow makes it worse.
“I noticed her,” I say instead. “That’s different.”
“It always is,” he replies mildly.
