Damien does not look at the menu. He looks at the case near the counter, then at me.
“Two coffees. One espresso, one café crème. The apricot pastry from the case, if it’s still warm. If it’s not, the almond.”
The waiter nods. “Of course, monsieur.”
I look at Damien after the waiter leaves.
“You’re still ordering for me?”
His mouth curves slightly. “You’re still letting me.”
I should object. I do not, because the apricot pastry did look better than the almond one, and the fact that he noticedis more aggravating than if he had been wrong. He rests one hand near his coffee spoon and studies me across the table. No performance. No apology offered too early. No attempt to make this easier than it is.
Good.
I can work with direct.
I am prepared for direct.
I amnotprepared for how much I remember.
The waiter returns with the coffee before that thought can do damage. He places the espresso in front of Damien, the café crème in front of me, and a small plate between us. The apricot pastry is still warm. I can tell by the way the glaze softens at the edge and the butter scent rises the moment it reaches the table.
Of course he chose correctly.That irritates me more than it should.
The waiter says, “Bon appétit,” then steps away.
Damien tears the pastry in half with clean, practiced fingers and slides the better piece toward me.
I look at the plate. “You just gave me the side with more apricot.”
“I know,” he says.
“That was either generous or strategic.”
“It can be both,” he says.
I pick up the pastry because refusing it would make this look like a power struggle, and I refuse to enter a power struggle over fruit and butter before coffee. The first bite is crisp, warm, and bright with apricot. I hate that it settles me.
He watches my face.
I swallow. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I was right,” he says.
“That’s not a personality.”
“It has worked for me.”
“I can imagine.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. That is what steadies the moment. The banter is there because it has always been there between us, but neither of us mistakes it for the point. I set the pastry down and reach for my coffee. He lifts his espresso, takes one measured sip, and places the cup back on the saucer.
“Thank you for coming.”
“This was arranged through my editor,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “But you still came.”
