Page 56 of Sinister

Sin parks, and we step into the vibrant space.

Instantly, I can smell freshly baked bread and garlic frying in butter. My stomach growls, and I realize how scattered my eating habits have become.

While I try to banish intrusive thoughts about how I should be extra careful about my diet given my . . . condition, I look admiringly at the antebellum décor, an eclectic mix of rustic wooden beams and modern art pieces, cozy yet chic.

The hostess greets us, and Sin smoothly arranges a table. We’re led to a semi-private corner with a perfect view of the kitchen, where chefs are moving in perfect symphony, sautéing, stirring, and stewing. Sounds of clinking cutlery, soft laughter, and murmured conversations float around me, and I feel much less discomforted than I do at school.

Meanwhile, Sin is studying the menu. “How about some lasagna? Or maybe some shellfish risotto?” he asks warmly. “Wait, you’re not allergic, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” I reply with a smile. “I actually love shellfish. The risotto sounds great.”

As we chat so casually, so effortlessly, I notice how he fits so well into this world. The tension between us seems to have dissipated. I might even say that we are chilling at the moment.

We order some risotto and chicken cacciatore. Over a truly delicious amuse bouche of Parmesan arancini balls, we lapse into the friendly banter that had instantly sprung up between us the first time we met.

“Never pegged you for someone who likes fish,” Sin says jokingly.

“Why? That’s some next-level profiling, Arnoult!” I shoot back.

“Not profiling! Just, you seem like an expensive-cuts-of-wagyu-beef kinda girl, you know?”

“That is so random, Sin!” I roll my eyes and take a long sip of my berry lemonade. And then he smiles at me with the same kind of intensity as he had shown the night we . . . the night I⁠—

“Actually, I did some research today,” I say abruptly, pulling out my notebook and moving my thoughts away from dangerous territory. “I think we can consider working on artists like M. C. Escher and Serafini to-to show how art can blur . . .” I try to fashion a topic from the roiling cauldron of my thoughts, but Sin is staring at me in that silent, broody way that makes my heart beat faster and my mouth stumble over my words.

Nevertheless, I persist, determined to remain unfazed by his obvious attempt (and success) at smoldering.

“How art can-can warp the ways in which we physically interact with the world⁠—”

“Petra,” Sin says at this point, gently, reassuringly, as if trying to calm me.

But why? I am calm already, the hysterical voice in my head cuts in.

“I’m really glad you agreed to this. The dinner, I mean.” He looks so earnest that I am momentarily stunned.

“That’s okay, I-I’m enjoying myself.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Petra.” Sin moves his hand closer to mine over the table, and our fingers almost brush.

It’s an electrifying feeling, as if my skin is suddenly hypersensitive to the lightest of touches.

“I was really sad about how we left things off at the shed.”

“Oh, that whole thing?” I sputter in mock surprise. “Water under the bridge, Sin. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I want to worry about it. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it, about what you said.” Sin’s voice drops lower as his palm strokes the back of mine. His hand feels warm and soft and all things nice, and his features are suffused with the glow of a man set on courting the lady before him.

“That’s-that’s not what we came here to discuss, Sin,” I begin in a cautioning tone, though a part of me wants to take him up on the offer—indulge in some sweet nothings in this cozy, warm restaurant where we can be away from prying eyes.

Yet I’m acutely aware of the secret growing inside me, and I need to keep myself grounded.

“We really need to outline our approach for the project,” I insist. “We haven’t even decided on the topic.”

Sin waves a hand dismissively, still smiling. “We’ll get to it. With your brains and my looks, and also with your looks,” he adds teasingly, and I can’t help but laugh, “this project is gonna be a breeze. But let’s not stress about it tonight. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that’s hard to ignore, but my mind is restless.

“But this is important, Sin. Fifty percent of our grade is on the line.”