We join the short line, Ryan like the proverbial kid in a candy store, her fingers pressed against the glass pastry case.
“What do you want?” I murmur, bending so my head is almost at her shoulder.
“A girl. I’m thinking it has to be a girl.”
I give a delighted little laugh, caught off guard by her candor. By the moment and where her thoughts are right now.
“But that’s not what you meant.” She turns her head and gives a playful roll of her eyes.
“No, but that’s a bit more important than your breakfast order. Why a girl?”
“I don’t know how boys work,” she says, turning back to the glass.
“I seem to remember differently,” I say, pressing my hand to her hip. It’s a brief touch, and she doesn’t move away from it, but maybe she doesn’t notice because of her coat.
“What can I get you?”
I glance up at the twentysomething fella in a green apron. “Acortado, please, mate. And ...”
“A cappuccino. Decaf?”
“Make them both decaf,” I say.
“Matt, you don’t have to—”
“We’re in this together.”
“You gonna give up whiskey too?”
My expression twists, conflicted.
“You don’t have to do that either,” she says, amused.
“Anything else?” the bakery bloke puts in, his tone bored.
“May I please have one of these buns filled with cream?” Ryan presses her finger to the glass.
“Maritozzi,” he says, more North London than Italiano.
“That’s what you’re having?” I feel my brow furrow.
“Yeah.” She glances my way questioningly.
“That’s what you want?” The words escape without thought. And Ryan’s expression? It’s not much impressed.
“You brought me to a bakery for breakfast, so don’t think you can give me a hard time for my food choices.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to tell me about the risks associated with gestational diabetes.”
“No!” I say, backpedaling quickly. “I just thought you might’ve wanted zeppole.”
“They have zeppole?” Her eyes widen, then dart to the baker. Sales assistant. Whatever.
He nods and moves down the counter, tongs hanging over a row of pretty pasties swirled with cream.
“That’s zeppole?” Her tone is doubtful.
