He slowly shakes his head. “What is this amazing meal?”
Really? Is this a trick question? “It’s called a country breakfast. They serve it at Cracker Barrel.”
“Please don’t talk. I need to focus on the food.”
“You just asked me a question.”
“That’s beside the point.”
Okay, Mr. Grumpy.He takes another bite, closing his eyes again and this time, moaning as he chews.
The moan makes a tingle tumble willy-nilly down my spine and straight to my crotch.
I gulp down a bite and keep my eyes on my own breakfast, doing everything in my willpower not to focus on Pane and his orgasmic-sounding eating.
When I dare glance up, he’s inhaled the entire biscuit and gravy. The man releases a satiated sigh, sits back, and studies me. “That’s a biscuit?”
“Have you never had one before?”
“No.”
I nearly fall off my chair. “What?”
“We don’t serve this in the hotels—but my God, that was amazing.” He sits up eagerly, a surprising look of childlike excitement scribbled across his face. “Is there more?”
I push the basket of biscuits toward him. “Help yourself.”
“How do you make it?” he asks, picking up a small one and pulling it open, watching as steam uncurls from the hot dough. “It’s so flaky,” he marvels.
Is he putting me on? Did the shamper full of posters damage his brain? “Well,” I say slowly, “it’s pretty standard breakfast fare in the Southeast. It’s just flour, salt, fat, and buttermilk.” I study him, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. All signs point to yes. “You’ve really never had one?”
“Never.” He shoves one half in his mouth. “Wow.”
I grab his wrist, and a jolt of lava hits me in the solar plexus. Holy cow. I drop him as quickly as I took hold, chalking the shock up to static electricity.
“Put butter on it. It’s better.”
He scans the table. “Where’s the butter knife?”
“Just use your dinner knife. That’s what us poor people do.”
“Sorry,” he mutters.
I cock my ear toward him. “What was that?”
He gives me a withering look. “Sorry.I’ll use whatever knife you give me.”
Then he slathers the rest of the half in butter and eats it, moaning again. After he swallows, he says, “It’s better with the gravy.”
Which he then pours on his plate and dredges the other half through it, finishing it in two bites.
I think I’ve created a monster.
Pane slurps coffee and swallows before explaining, “We don’t have any hotels in this area; that’s why I don’t know about this food. But this is amazing. May I have another?”
“Have as many as you want.” He takes one and now has his routine in place—butter, gravy, eat. “What do you usually have for breakfast?”
He finishes chewing. “It depends on where I am. In New York, the hotel serves eggs and bacon. In Paris, it’s salmon and caviar. In Tokyo, it’s grilled fish and miso soup.” He shrugs like waking up in Paris orTokyo is an everyday occurrence, which I suppose it is for him. “Like I said, it depends.”
