Page 63 of Reaper
"The grandmother next to her says you probably taste as good as you look."
I bury my face in my hands. "This is not how undercover work is supposed to go."
"Are you kidding?" she whispers, leaning closer. "This is the best cover ever. Nobody's going to suspect why we’re here when half the restaurant wants to adopt us and the other half wants to — "
"Excuse me?" A young server appears beside our table, notepad in hand, looking slightly harried. "Ready to order?"
Adriana immediately straightens up, and I watch her face transform. Gone is the playful woman who was just whispering dirty translations in my ear. Instead, she puts on a wide-eyed, slightly confused tourist expression that's so convincing I almost buy it myself.
"Oh, hi!" she says, her voice pitched higher, more nasal. "This is our first time here, and we're so excited! My friend recommended the dumplings, but there are so many kinds!" She holds up the menu, pointing randomly. "What's the difference between these ones and these ones? And are they steamed or fried? Actually, what does steamed mean exactly?"
The server blinks, clearly trying to summon patience. "Steamed means cooked with steam. No oil."
"Ooh, that sounds healthy! But what about flavor? Do they taste good?”
“Why would we serve food that tastes bad?”
I can see the server's eye twitching, but Adriana just keeps going, her voice getting more valley-girl by the second.
"Oh right, of course! But like, what about these little purse-looking ones? Are they sweet? And these round ones - do they have meat? I don't eat pork. Well, sometimes I eat pork. Actually, what kind of meat is it? Is it like, real meat or mystery meat?" She giggles in a high-pitched way that makes me want to crawl under the table. "And what about these ones with the funny pleats? Do you eat them with your hands or chopsticks? I'm terrible with chopsticks!"
The server looks like she's aging in real time. "The har gow are shrimp dumplings. The xiu mai have pork and shrimp. The xiaolongbao have soup inside—"
"Wait, soup inside? How does that work? Doesn't it spill out?" Adriana's eyes are wide with fake wonder. "That sounds so messy! Are there napkins?"
"I... yes. There are napkins. This is a restaurant. We have napkins."
"Perfect! Okay, so we'll take some of the soup ones, and the shrimp ones, and maybe some of the pork ones? Actually, how much pork? Like a lot or just a little? Because I'm trying to watch my figure." She pats her stomach.
The server scribbles something on her pad. "I'll bring you an assortment. Mixed plate."
"Ooh, a surprise. I love surprises! Thank you so much."
As soon as the server retreats, probably to question her life choices, Adriana's entire demeanor shifts back to normal. She leans across the table, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"The suits are talking about a shipment coming in tomorrow night," she murmurs, pretending to adjust her napkin. "Something about the trucking yard and making sure their 'friends' are taken care of."
"Jesus," I breathe. "You got all that from — "
"Shh." She reaches across and traces her finger along my knuckles, the touch sending heat shooting up my arm. "Thegrandmother behind you thinks we're adorable together. She's telling her friend about how her grandson needs to find someone who looks at him the way you look at me."
I feel my cheeks burning. "How do I look at you?"
Her finger trails up to my wrist, and she smiles — not the fake tourist smile, but that real one that makes my chest tight and has me thinking of what a new life, with her, could look like. "Like I'm the only person in the room."
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, the server returns with a massive tray loaded with bamboo steamers and small plates. She sets them down with mechanical efficiency, clearly wanting to escape our table as quickly as possible.
"Enjoy," she says curtly, already backing away.
I stare at it all. It’s a lot of fucking food, and I have no idea what any of it is.
Adriana picks up her chopsticks with practiced ease, selecting what looks like a delicate dumpling from one steamer. The way she handles them is fluid, natural — nothing like the bumbling tourist act she just put on for our server.
"Here," she says, her voice dropping to that husky tone that makes my stomach flip. She lifts the dumpling toward me, her eyes locked on mine. "Open up for me."
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow. There's something about the way she's looking at me, the way her lips curve around those words, that makes my pulse spike. I lean forward and part my lips, letting her feed me the dumpling. The flavors explode on my tongue — pork and ginger and something savory I can't identify — but all I can focus on is the way she watches my mouth, the satisfied little smile that crosses her face when I swallow.
"Good?" she asks, already reaching for another one.
