Rhys starts eating, too. From the relaxed set of his jaw and shoulders, guess he’s happy with dinner. “Guess this is worth dreaming about.”
I stare at him with amusement. I’ve never seen him crave any particular food, certainly not enough to dream about it. “You dream about cheeseburgers?”
“No, but you did. The first night here, you were mumbling, ‘Cheeseburger,’ and trying to eat your pillow. Totally woke me up.”
I snort-laugh. “I did not.”
“Totally did. You drooled so much, you almost caused a flood in the room.”
My face warms with embarrassment. “I don’t talk in my sleep. Ever.”
“People who snore don’t know they snore.”
“I don’t snore, either! I’d know if I did something in my sleep.”
“I see.” He cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward a little. “So are you telling me the ‘minor incursion’ this morning was done on purpose?”
The image of what happened this morning fills my mind. The feel of him under my hand, and me clinging to him like a needy puppy. His hand on my shoulder, like he didn’t want me to roll away. It was unfamiliar and—
Abruptly, I realize I don’t hug anybody in my sleep. Even when I spend the night at Jeffrey’s, I wrap a blanket around myself and curl up on my side. He sleeps with one arm flung over his head and the other hand on his belly.
And shockingly, I slept like a baby last night. But admitting that to Rhys would be a bad idea. I can’t articulate why, but my gut says so.
“That’s different. I was lured in by the enemy,” I say finally, then finish my beer and signal for another.
He scoffs, although his mouth twitches. “Hugging the enemy. I’m sure not even Jesus wanted you to do that.”
“Jesus wasn’t a hugger. He wanted you to be open to being slapped, one cheek, then the next.” I turn my face from side to side, showing him both cheeks. “Besides, it’s not shameful to dream about cheeseburgers. They’re fantastic. Taste like home.”
“Not pizza? You order them all the time for lunch socials.”
“I grab them because everyone likes pizza. But me? Cheeseburgers all the way. Mom used to make them for me every summer and for the Super Bowl. It’s my comfort food, especially with fries and ketchup. Everyday Americana. Her recipe is amazing too, although I’ve never been quite able to replicate the flavor, even when I follow the instructions exactly. My aunt might be able to tell me what I’m doing wrong, but she and I aren’t really close. As a matter of fact, we haven’t spoken since Mom’s funeral. How about you? Any special thing you like to eat?”
He gives me an inscrutable look, then seems to shake himself. “Comfort food? No… Don’t think I have anything like that.”
“Don’t you have something you grew up with? Even as lavish as surf and turf topped with hazelnut butter and truffle shavings?” I mention the dinner we had the last time the firm closed a deal.
He chews thoughtfully for a while. “Lobster bisque finished with two scoops of Osetra caviar.” His nose wrinkles. He takes a big swig of his beer. “Mom likes it, so we had it fairly often.”
“Ooh… Fancy.” I love lobster bisque, but rarely have it since it’s so pricey.
“Felt like torture when I was a kid. I still don’t like lobster bisque or caviar.”
“That explains why you never have caviar while flying. I used to wonder why you always have either warmed nuts or pâte.”
“They don’t taste like cold, fishy salt bubbles.” He shudders. “If I’d been introduced to it as an adult, I might’ve liked it more. Hard to say. But as a five-year-old? Ugh.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “Sounds yummier when you call it caviar.”
“Of course. Why do you think restaurants call it calamari fritti rather than fried squid?”
“Stop. You’re going to ruin one of my favorite foods.”
“Did your mom make that for you, too?”
Something about his tone sounds wistful, but I’m probably imagining things. He grew up in wealth and privilege. Sure, his parents had a ton of scandals to their name, but most were probably fabricated by tabloids—the kinds of things the family might find annoying, but then just laugh off.
I shrug. “No. She hated cooking with seafood. Too slimy when raw, she said. But she loved to eat them at this hole-in-the-wall in my old neighborhood. Owned by an Italian guy whomoved from New York City when he was twenty. It’s still there. Maybe I’ll take you one of these days.”
