“Hey, sweetheart,” Roan says softly to Meg as I head over to help with the food.
But Meg is completely out, with her paperback splayed on her chest.
“Aw,” I sigh. “I guess the couch passes the cozy test.”
“It sure does,” Roan says. “We’ll let her sleep. She obviously needs it.”
“Does she fall asleep like that often?” I ask as we head back past the counter to the café table.
“Never,” he says.
The table is tucked between two bookshelves with a view of the tree lot, and it occurs to me that when Meg wakes up, she won’t be able to find us right away.
“Will she be worried if she wakes up and we’re not there?” I ask. “We can get the picnic blanket out again.”
“She’ll be out a while, I think,” Roan says. “And if not, she’ll come find us. She’s really comfortable here, clearly.”
That makes me smile. Megisreally comfortable here. As well she should be after all the time she’s spent helping out.
“I’m glad,” I tell him.
“Besides,” he says with a crooked half smile. “She got to break in the sofa. We’ll break in your table and chairs.”
“That’s fair,” I agree with a smile.
Roan lays out all the food while I run upstairs tograb extra napkins. When I get back down, I’m amazed at the feast in front of us.
“Wow,” I say. “Is this just for the three of us?”
“We’re good eaters,” he tells me. “And I think you’re going to love it.”
He’s not wrong. We pile up a plate for Meg and set it aside, and then dig in. As soon as I take my first bite, I know I’m hooked.
“The food up here is amazing,” I say around a mouthful of the most tender dumpling I’ve ever eaten.
“Better than New York?” he asks me.
“I’m going to miss the Indian food,” I tell him. “And the Mexican too.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “We’ve got a taco place around here somewhere.”
“My part of Queens had a ton of Indian and Mexican immigrants,” I tell him, feeling homesick for New York for the first time in a long while. “The food was unbelievable. And the people were so nice.”
“Which neighborhood?” he asks, surprising me. Usually, people who aren’t from the city don’t know or care about that stuff.
“Jackson Heights,” I tell him proudly. “I had my own place too. It was tiny and I was on the train a while to get to and from work, but it was so worth it to be part of a real neighborhood. Of course, I was pretty much always at work.”
“Long hours, huh?” he asks.
I nod, trying not to be homesick about taking the five o’clock train to the city every morning and digging into the slush pile when the office was still and silent.
My phone chooses that moment to buzz and I pull it out of my pocket on instinct before glancing at Roan.
“Take it,” he says, waving me on.
I nod and then swallow when I see the call is coming from Wish Tree Press.
“H-hello,” I say, clearing my throat afterward.
