He nodded. “I was going to shimmy up the drainpipe onto the balcony and call for you.”
I had to stop myself from smiling. I honestly wouldn’t put it past him.
“With a flower in my mouth.”He lifted a red rose and placedit between his teeth.
“Rule four. No flirting.”
Frowning, he pulled out the flower and said, “Good host. Not flirting.”
“Good. Because we have a report to finish.”
He groaned, his knees bending as his head fell back. He plated the pastries, and I eagerly bit into the túrós batyu while I gathered my neglected files from one of the sofas.Oh my god.The pillow of pastry crumbled in my mouth, the soft tang as tasty as I could remember.
I ate two before managing to speak, slightly embarrassed by how quickly I’d wolfed them down. “There are mentions of ‘unspecified vestibular symptoms.’”
He was smiling at me. “Yeah, my balance was off for a while.”
He said it like it was nothing.
“How long? It doesn’t say.”
“Six months?”He dusted his stack of pancakes with flour.“Sometimes, I’d just hit the ground. It became a bit of a family game. Mum scolded Benedek for it, but he and Imre made bets on how long I’d last after I stood up. The dogs stopped taking me seriously when I fell. They’d lie there like ‘there goes dad up to his old tricks again.’”
“Your balance was so off that you fell over? Like on the floor?”
“Jam?” he asked and sucked the flour off one of his fingers.
My core heated. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was half-naked, or the glimmer of tongue, or the domesticity. Or simply him. I closed my eyes and nodded. If this continued, I’d have to interview him through his very locked door.
“You fell over because of your balance?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” he said and gestured for me to sit at the kitchen island. He’d already put outcutlery.
“And how is your balance now?”
“Fine,”he said. “I go to therapy every week. I meet with my rehabilitation officer every three months for him to check in on me. I wouldn’t be cleared to race without it.”
“And when you race… You don’t trigger any kind of PTSD?”
His breath caught in his throat like his words choked him. He set my plate down with more of a clatter than I expected. “Sorry,” he said and sat opposite me. “I don’t talk about… I don’t…”
He wasn’t angry. For the first time, he looked panicked, eyes darting around the room at anything other than me.
He always looked at me,except now.
“No, I should be sorry.” I reached to rest my hand on top of his. “Is it okay for me to ask these questions? Maybe we should be more professional. Maybe I should just talk the report through with you.” But I like hearing it from your perspective. I like hearing you talk. “I don’t want to add any trauma or—”
“No,” he said and angled his hand for mine to fall into his. He squeezed my fingers. “Who else would I have to talk to about it?”
“Your therapist.”
He shrugged and took a mouthful of his pancakes. “I don’t mind talking about it with you. I mean, we are family now.”
The cocky smile on his face stalled when I snatched my hand back.
“Oh my god,” I groaned and wanted to flatten my stack of pancakes with my forehead. “Please stop with the stepbrother remarks.”
He pulled my hand back onto the table and held it prisoner. “I meant because you’re the mother of my son. Bodri.”
