"If we're going to be smugglers," he said, mock-grave, "we should do it properly and actually eat the contraband." He unveiled a ramekin of butter and a tiny jar of honey. "You don't need to worry, either. Brek's is known for providing diplomatic immunity for cases like this."
"Who are you, Zach Dvornakov?" she asked, seriously and, also, not.
"The hero you didn't know you needed." He folded a napkin and lifted out a fresh loaf. Malt and caraway unspooled something low in her chest.
She aimed for delicate. But the first bite drew an embarrassingly honest hum out of her. Warmth pushed up her neck.
His gaze heated, focused on her lips.
"That never happened," she said primly, pointing to the bread and then to herself.
"That absolutely happened," he said, eyes amused and intent. "Make that noise again, and I'm kissing you."
"Then stop feeding me," she muttered, already reaching for more honey. "This is carbohydrate entrapment."
"Not a chance."
"Why is this so good?" she asked.
"Because Babushka substitutes the liquid in some of her recipes with vodka. It works." He shrugged.
They fell into the rhythm of slice, butter, honey, sip, smile, laugh. The band rolled into a looser beat that made their booth a private space in the crowd of people.
"Tell me something true," he said, palm up on the table but not touching hers.
The space between their hands felt like a dare.
Piper smoothed a crumb off the table with her thumb.
"I color-code my sock drawer," she said at last. "That's why I didn't think it was funny when you teased me about doing yours."
"Does that mean you'll volunteer to adopt mine?" he asked. "They need structure. They're feral."
"They'll get a chart and a curfew. I expect a benefits package."
"Dental, vision, and naming rights to my sock bins." He shifted toward her, his arms on the table. "Just so we're clear, organizational theory as a form of foreplay is a kink I didn't know I am into until this moment."
"Your turn," she said, grinning.
"Remember how I said Babushka taught me to sew?"
Piper nodded.
"I still like to get out my old Singer when I'm stressed. It makes my head quiet."
Something tugged hard in her chest. "You at your sewing machine is way more attractive than me with socks."
"More attractive than contraband carbs?" he asked.
"Jury's out." She angled the basket his way.
He stretched an arm along the back of the booth. "Wildly unpopular opinion?"
"Easy. Confetti is the glitter of cowards," she said confidently because she had given this a decent amount of thought.
That seemed to catch him off guard. "Explain."
"If you're going to make a mess, commit. Either go biodegradable petals or own the cleanup. Confetti is a half-measure with static cling."
