Page 40 of The Bastard's Lily
“Kid’s got a way of doing that.” Rook grins around his chopsticks, a real one this time—sharp and warm and just a little smug. “He said I had to take you on a date. That’s an order, technically.”
I let out a soft snort. “He also said you had to bring me back in one piece.”
“Well, damn. That ruins my whole plan.”
“Rook,” I warn, swatting his arm with the back of my hand.
“I’m kidding. Kinda.” He leans back on one hand, balancing his container in the other. “You know, he’s smart. Like you. Fierce little shit, too. Already gave me the ‘hurt-my-mama-and-I’ll-bury-you’ speech.”
I blink. “Did he actually say that?”
“No,” Rook laughs. “He just glared at me and said, ‘Mama cries when people leave.’ Then walked away like a damn mafia boss.”
My heart stumbles in my chest, and I look down at my food, suddenly less hungry. “He remembers more than I thought.”
“He’s got your eyes,” Rook says, quieter now. “Big, full of fire. But he’s got… I dunno. My stubbornness.”
“God help us both.”
We lapse into another moment of silence, this one softer, hazier. A few birds chirp nearby. A breeze picks up and rustles the trees, brushing strands of hair into my face. Rook reaches over and tucks it behind my ear before I can flinch away. I freeze. His fingers linger for just a second too long.
Then he clears his throat and sits back. “Auntie put strawberry mochi in here, by the way. Said you would like ‘em.”
I smile down at the mochi but don’t reach for it yet. “Still sweet on strawberry, huh?”
He shrugs, peeling open his dumpling container. “Only when it’s wrapped in rice dough and doesn’t talk back.”
I hum. “Sounds like your type.”
“You used to be my type.”
My chopsticks pause mid-air. “Used to be?”
Rook smirks. “Mmm. Guess I’ve expanded my palate.”
There’s a beat of silence that stretches too long to be comfortable, but not long enough to be awkward. Then I offer, “I still hate mushrooms. In case you were planning some big romantic fungus-based dinner someday.”
He snorts. “Damn. There goes my portobello proposal.”
“You laugh,” I say, popping a dumpling into my mouth, “but someone actually proposed to me with a soup dumpling once.”
Rook stares. “You’re lying.”
“Swear on your bike.”
He grimaces. “That’s serious.”
“It was in the bar I worked at. Some guy who barely knew me and thought he would save me from my single mother lonelihood…according to him at least.”
Rook lets out a low whistle. “You say yes?”
I shake my head. “I spat it out and said, ‘Wrong sauce.’”
He grins, wide and real. “That’s my girl.”
My chest pinches. It shouldn’t, but it does.
He lowers his chopsticks. “So… you been back long?”
