“That should not have happened,” Jildarin continued. “I’ve lessened the amount of spice employed in my soup. Lately, it hasn’t been having that effect.” His eyes narrowed. “Did one of the staff meddle with the pot that I left simmering?”
“I heard a rumor that someone bumped a jar, causing more spices to fall in.”
“Rolf. To what end does he desire my patrons to have coitus?”
“Profit.”
Vilma arrived with a tray, a regular-sized steaming cup for Jildarin and four tiny espresso cups for Rylana. She set them in a row with little cards that shared tasting notes and information about the regions and history of the chocolates used in the mochas. Rylana smiled happily, enjoying the luxurious drinking experience. After years of being a mercenary and being lucky if the supply wagons brought coffee beans of any sort, this almost made up for the fact that her father hadn’t been happy to see her, the diner was under siege, and Vormalt was up to who knew what.
Once Vilma left, Jildarin picked up his cup with both hands. He examined the latte from all angles, sniffed it, then set it back down.
Rylana closed her eyes as she sipped from one of her cups—ah, the rich, almost buttery texture of that mocha delighted her tongue. She decided she wouldn’t try to coerce Jildarin to drink, but would simply enjoy her own. He might think she’d arranged to have his cup poisoned if she tried too hard to get him to sip. Besides, she’d brought him here to bolster him—and ensure that he returned to the diner—not turn him into a coffee connoisseur.
When she opened her eyes to deliver a compliment, she found him looking at her, his eyes narrowed.
“Are you silently judging me for relishing my flavored water?” she asked.
“Yourfourflavored waters.”
“Yes.” Rylana sipped from a second cup. “They’re delicious. I’ll bet this would go well with one of your sweeter bacons. A delightful breakfast dessert experience.” She finished the thought with a drawn-outmmmm.
“I suppose one who spends time crafting fine foods does like seeing that people enjoy them,” Jildarin said.
“So, you’re not judging me?”
“Hm.” He eyed the cups, probably not considering a barista a chef or the mochas fine foods.
At least he hadn’t insulted Rylana. That made it easier to continue with her bolstering mission.
“Silent judgments aside, you area wonderful chef, Jildarin,” she said. “You should enter the contest even without your spices. I’m sure you would do well.”
“Why do you care if I enter it or not?”
“I want to see you succeed.”
“Why?”
“Your charisma, wit, and dashing smile have made me fall passionately in love with you.”
“I do not smile.”
“I know. I was being sarcastic.” So much for her bolstering attempts. Rylana groped for a reason he would believe.
Whydidshe care? Maybe Sylin was right, and she felt guilty. Not only about shooting him but about the role of the mercenaries in the war as a whole. Maybe she was trying to make up for the past. Or maybe, after leaving the career she’d had for more than fifteen years, she needed a mission.Purpose. She could be feeling some of the same ennui at traveling listlessly as Sylin.
“You are my enemy and do not love me,” Jildarin said, “but I believe youareattracted to me.”
“You think so?”
“If not, after you imbibed so many servings of my soup, you would have directed your lust toward another.”
“Rolf and Gniknik were the only other males around. You could have shape-shifted into a fungus-covered log and had more appeal than they have. Than Rolf anyway. Gniknik is kind of cute, I suppose, but not in a sexual way, at least not to me.” Rylana sipped her drink. “I don’t think any assumptions can be made based on what a woman does while under the influence of your spices. I also thought the elves that wanted to drag me to their enclave for questioning were hot.”
“To sexually pursue one would have been unwise.”
“Oh, I know.”
“A surprising number of humans did so during the war, finding elves alluring,” Jildarin said. “The elves sometimes used that to their advantage and gained intelligence from those who sought them out.”
