Marisol amusedly watches the exchange with a glass of wine in her hand.
She notices us first. “There you are.”
Julian turns immediately. “Finally.”
Irving has already drifted to the sideboard, studying the line of wine bottles with the focus of a man about to make an important life decision.
A member of the staff appears and gestures politely. “Dinner is ready.”
We all move to take our places. Chairs scrape the stone floor as everyone takes their places. I take the seat directly across from Sky, because it’s the safest option to ensure I keep my hands to myself.
She settles into her seat, smoothing her napkin on her lap as the first course arrives. A server sets a wide ceramic bowl in front of each of us, steam curling upward into the candlelight.Bramboracka, he explains, is potato soup thick with root vegetables, mushrooms, and marjoram. The smell alone is incredible.
“Okay,” Sky lifts her spoon and tastes it, closing her eyes briefly, “I’m sold.”
The second course ispecená kachna. Slow-roasted duck, skin crisp and dark with caraway seeds. Braised red cabbage glows deep crimson beside thick slices of potato immersed in rich gravy.
Conversation flows as everyone digs in. Stories overlap. Glasses refill. Irving launches into a description of the band’s rehearsal earlier in the afternoon while Marisol tries unsuccessfully to keep Julian from reorganizing tomorrow’s seating arrangements again.
Sky listens intently, one elbow resting near her wine glass. Every few minutes, her eyes flick back to mine.
Quick. Careful. Electric.
Svícková, the next dish arrives. Braised beef sirloin in a creamy root vegetable sauce, garnished with cranberry andwhipped cream. Bread dumplings are arranged neatly along the side.
My focus is hardly on the food. Sky looks incredible. From the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she laughs to the faint flush lingering along her collarbone. Our eyes meet again. She holds my gaze this time. Then her foot slides forward under and brushes mine.
I freeze.
She pulls it back immediately and reaches for her wine, pretending nothing happened.
“Zach.” Irving’s voice snaps me back. “You’re staring.”
Sky coughs into her napkin.
“I’m admiring thearchitecture.” I raise an eyebrow.
Irving glances at the beams overhead. “Again? You seem to be quite taken with this castle.”
Sky’s heel connects sharply with my shin. I almost smile.
Dinner continues in warm waves of conversation asVepro-knedlo-zelo, the final savory dish arrives. Roasted pork with sauerkraut and bread dumplings.
Wine flows. Stories stretch. Sky keeps looking at me the same way I’m looking at her. Remembering exactly what we were doing last night and this morning. Planning how and where we’re going to do it again.
Her foot finds mine again. This time it lingers. Then it retreats.
I glance up and she’s turned toward Marisol, nodding along to something about tomorrow’s schedule. She glances over.
The smallest smile appears. Just for me.
Patience.
The word passes between us without a sound, hidden beneath the easy noise of old friends and full glasses of wine. On the surface nothing has changed. Sky chattering animatedly. Me pretending not to stare.
Once this dinner ends and the castle corridors fall quiet, none of the logistics matter.
Not the band. Rehearsal dinner.
Or the seating chart.
Most certainly not the bedroom assigned to me.
