Page 21 of The Seven Year Slip

“Uh—sure?”

He reached over the counter and pressed his thumb in the center of my eyebrows, and smoothed the skin out. “Here. Like you’re surprised that you want to cry.”

I stared at him, a blush rising on my cheeks. I quickly leaned back. “They—they donot,” I said, mortified. “You’re just seeing things.”

He picked up his knife again and began to gut a bell pepper. “Whatever you say, Lemon.”

I shot him a glare. “It’sClementine.”

“Clllllllemontine.”

“I suddenly hate you.”

He mock gasped, dropping his knife, and slammed his hands against his chest. “Lemon, already? At least wait until you taste my food first!”

“Am I getting a fancy dinner tonight?”

He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Oof, sorry. I didn’t bring my fine china. Only my fine knives.” And he picked up his chef’s knife again. “This one is Bertha.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Younameyour knives?”

“All of them.” Then he pointed over to his other knives rolled out on the counter and introduced them. “Rochester, Jane, Sophie, Adele...”

“Those are justJane Eyrecharacters.”

“They’re my grandfather’s,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

I looked at the one he was using. The handle, now that he mentioned it, did look a bit worn, and the sheen of silver a little dull—but they were clearly well loved, and well taken care of. “Was he a chef?”

“No. But he wanted to be,” he replied quietly, and I sensed that it was a tough topic. Was his grandfather still alive? Or had he inherited those knives like I had this apartment?

Though I wassurehis knives weren’t of the time-traveling variety.

“Well,” I said, finishing my wine, “it’s such a pity that with no fine china, I guess I’ll be uncultured for the rest of my life.”

Hetsked. “A few of my friends would argue that you can’t be uncultured in food because the idea ofculturedfood derives from the gentrification of recipes in general.”

The way he said those words, and the severity with which hesaid them, was incredibly attractive. My stomach dropped as I briefly wondered,If he is that good at words, how good is he at—

“So, Iamcultured?” I asked, distracting myself.

“You are who you are, and you like what you like,” he replied, and there was no sarcasm in his voice. “You are you, and that’s a lovely person to be.”

“You barely know me.”

He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, studying me for a moment, his eyes a shade darker than they had been before. “I think your favorite color is yellow,” he guessed, and watched as the surprise trickled across my face. “But not a bright yellow—more of a golden yellow. The color of sunflowers. That might even be your favorite flower.”

My mouth fell open.

“I take it I’m close?” he asked in a soft rumble, and the smugness made my toes curl.

“Lucky guess,” I replied, and he smiled so wide, his eyes glittered. “Well, what’s yours?”

That crooked grin curled across his lips. Hetsked again, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “That’d be cheating, Lemon,” he purred. “You’ll have to guess.”

Then he pushed himself off the counter and returned to cooking. And just like that, the moment of tension burst like a bubble, even though I still felt heady from how close he’d been.

I grabbed the bottle of rosé and poured myself another glass—I’d need it. I think I’d bitten off more than I could chew tonight. If he was twenty-six now, he’d be... thirty-three in my time? Probably renting somewhere in Williamsburg, if he stayed in the city, with a partner and a dog atleast. (He seemed like a dog person.)

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