Page 35 of The Seven Year Slip

A bit different every time.

Like Vera’s fettuccine.

The phrase was like a gut punch—a reminder of my aunt’s second rule. Never fall in love in this apartment.

“He always says food brings people together, and that’s really what I love about it.” He smiled a little at the memory, though there was this distant look in his eyes. Was that how I looked whenever I talked about my aunt? “How it can be a language all its own,” he went on, putting his elbows on the table, his head perched on his hands. “I’ve had entire conversations with people I’ve never spoken a word to. You can say things with food that you can’t quite with words sometimes.”

And there he went again, his passion for this art I had taken for granted turned into poetry. I would read encyclopedias if he wrote them with this sort of wonderlust.

Taking another bite, the sweetness of the cream dancing with the tart lemon, making my teeth curl in delight, I said, “Ah, you’re talking about a perfect meal again.”

“It all comes full circle,” he replied, the edges of his mouth twisting up in a smile. “Universal truths in butter. Secrets folded into the dough. Poetry in the spices. Romance in a chocolate. Love in a lemon pie.”

I set my elbows on the table, my head propped on my hands, mirroring him. “Truth be told, I’ve always found my lovers in a good cheese.”

“Asiago is very sassy.”

“A nice cheddar’s never let me down.”

“You go withcheddar? That’s so... like you, honestly.”

I gave a gasp. “You meanboring, don’t you!”

“I didn’t say that, you said that.”

“I’ll have you know, cheddar is averyrespectable cheese. And versatile, too! You can put cheddar on anything. Not like some of those otherfanciercheeses, like—like gouda or mozzarella or rock—rocke—”

He tilted his head toward me and whispered, “Roquefort.”

“Yes, that one!” I said, pointing my fork at him. “Or chèvre. Or gouda...”

“You already said that one.”

His face hovered so close to mine as he leaned over the table, I could smell the aftershave on his skin. My stomach was burning. “Or”—My brain struggled to think of another one.—“Parmesan...”

“I’ve always liked cheddar,” he finally said. This close, his eyes were more blue and green than gray, growing darker and stormier the longer I stared. I wondered if I could see his future in his eyes, what kind of man he’d be in seven years—but all I saw was a twenty-something a little lost in a new city, waiting to be the person he’d become.

If he liked cheddar, then did he like safe and boring, too?Me?No, I was getting carried away. Of course that wasn’t what he meant, but he was still so close, and my skin prickled from the heat I felt from his body. His eyes dropped to my lips again, as if debating on whether to take the chance.

And then he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, a secret, “May I kiss you?”

I sucked in a breath. I wanted to and I shouldn’t and it was probably theworstdecision in the world and—

I nodded.

He leaned over the table and pressed his lips to mine. Then we broke away—just for a moment, a sharp intake of breath—and crushed our mouths together again. I curled my fingers around the front of his dress shirt and tugged at his already loose tie. He cupped my face with his hands, and drank me in. I melted into him faster than ice cream on a hot sidewalk. He kissed like he wanted to savor me.

“I fear I have, indeed, gotten the wrong idea,” he murmured when we finally broke away, his words hot against my lips, voice deep and hoarse. “Despite my best efforts.”

I felt starved—the wild girl I wanted to be but never quite was, the kind who yearned to devour the world, one sensation at a time. The softness of his lips, the hunger there. I wrapped his tie around my hand, drawing him closer to me, and he made a noise in his throat as I pulled him near.

“We both might’ve gotten the wrong idea,” I agreed. “I like it, though. We could try it again?”

His eyes darkened like a hurricane on the horizon, and as I tugged him toward me, he came willingly, and kissed me harder on the mouth, threading his fingers into my hair. His tongue played along my bottom lip, teasing, and he tasted like lemon pie, sweet and summery. My belly burned, ached, as his thumb slid along my jawline, slowly tracing it down toward my neck. His touch was light and soft, the callouses on his fingertips rough against my skin, summoning goose bumps. I shivered. And he smelled amazing—like aftershave and laundry detergent and graham-cracker crust.

I didn’t realize how hungry I was for touch, for something good, somethingwarm and sweet, until I got a taste.

“Don’t fall in love in this apartment,” my aunt had warned, but this wasn’t love. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t—

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