He was suddenly pulled out of his reverie by the sight of Poppy picking up the bottle of milk. Which wasn’t anything spectacular in and of itself, of course, but –
“Don’t drink that,” he blurted out, and Poppy looked up, surprised.
“Sorry,” he said, moving to stand up. “It’s just that I’ve been, uh, drinking straight from the bottle. There’s another one in the fridge that’s for you – I’ll go get it.”
Poppy blinked. “Oh, it’s no problem,” she said. “It makes more sense to finish this one first. No need to get up.”
He watched, utterly entranced, as she drank down the rest of the bottle of milk in one long, slow series of gulps, sighing happily as she finished.
“I probably should’ve gone a bit slower,” she said, licking a stray drop of milk from the corner of her mouth. “But that milk wasinsanelygood. I can’t tell if it’s just because I’ve barely eaten all day, though.”
“No, it is that good,” said Max as he sat back down, trying to tear his eyes from her glisteningly wet lips. “Apparently all the food here is free-range, grass-fed, and sourced from within fifty miles, and everything I’ve tried has been incredible. I don’t know what their secret is.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “The cakes were amazing the last time I was here as well.”
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” asked Poppy, and Max kicked himself.
“Just once, several years back. I was just passing through on that occasion, though. I thought it might be nice to come back and spend more than an afternoon here.”
Technically, it was all one hundred percent true. But Poppy’s eyes narrowed as if she’d somehow seen right through him, before they flitted over to his notebook, which he’d left flipped open on the table. Max fought down the urge to close it and pull it toward himself, which would’ve looked guilty as hell.
“So are you a writer or something?” she asked. “Or is this just your personal journal?”
Really, this was the first time he’d ever had to deal with this question. He’d always relied on his powers in the past. Apparently, being a secret food critic was a whole lot harder if you couldn’t just make people forget about you.
“Or something,” he said, forcing himself to meet her steady gaze.
See?he thought, even as his heartbeat sped up.I can be cagey about my background as well. So now we’re even.
Poppy stared at him a moment longer, before she grinned.
“Fair enough,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me your life secrets yet.” She paused. “Maybe tomorrow.”
At the apparently stricken look on his face, she laughed out loud. “Or not at all! Don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. We barely know each other, after all.”
The gleam in her eye had him doubting that, but still, he was grateful. He’d already said more words to this near-stranger today than he had said to everyone else he’d seen in the past week put together, and he was starting to feel overwhelmed by the whole day in general. He normally had little interest in spending time with other people, but he found that he was…enjoyingher company, as strange as the whole situation was.
Still, he would probably have to excuse himself soon. He did have his limits, and he needed some space to himself to try and digest everything – both figuratively and literally.
In the meantime, though…
“Did you want a sandwich?” he asked, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. “The bread is just as good as you’d imagine.”
“Oh, good idea,” she said, grabbing a baguette and cutting it open. “I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the options, but sometimes you just need a sandwich.”
He’d been wanting to make one for her – which was an urge he’d never had with anyone else before – but apparently she was a go-getter type. Which didn’t really surprise him in the slightest.
“What do you recommend?” she asked, as she slathered the bread with butter. At his obvious look of surprise, she laughed again.
“I did an exchange trip to Germany in high school,” she said. “I’ve been a convert ever since.”
Not that he’d never had bread and butter before, but it wasn’t a favorite of his, and mayonnaise had always been his go-to for sandwiches.
To be fair, though, the butterdidlook good – it was a deep, rich golden color, and it practically gave way beneath the lightest touch of Poppy’s knife.
He’d already had one sandwich tonight, but, well, what was a food-tasting trip without a little overindulgence? And besides, it didn’treallycount as a sandwich if it was just bread and butter.
Tearing apart a baguette with a satisfyingcrunchof crispy crust, he spread a generous helping of butter along both sides and then took an enormous bite.
“Mm,” he said helplessly around the mouthful, remembering once more just why it was so good to work as a food critic – if he could even call itwork. The butter wasincredible, its rich, creamy, salty taste perfectly complementing the fluffiness of the baguette. The whole combination was so easy to eat, so basic and yet so complete.
