Page 42 of Midsummer Phoenixes
“English.”
“Soyer.”
“Fine. English with a dash of German. Why?”
“How many languages do you speak?”
I shrugged. “A few I speak well. A lot of them good enough to order food.”
“Will you tell me how many?”
I took the laundry from him and put it down on the ground in the hallway, then put my hands on his hips. “That changes, because language changes. Can I kiss you?”
He nodded, and I did. And he felt so fucking good, skin cool from the night air, breath warm when he opened his mouth to me. I’d learned to read moods from the way he kissed, and tonight’s mood wasn’t the one where I could just strip him and take him to bed. I had known that already given how chatty he had been since getting into the cab with me.
I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t cook. Can I make you a sandwich?”
“You don’t always have to cook for me, and a sandwich sounds wonderful.”
“Hnm. Wonderful. Leave your shirt down here and get changed while I make it.”
Amory nodded, and I watched him while I took off my coat and put it away in my former armory. He was still so self-conscious, getting naked in front of me, even if it was just taking off his shirt.
Some ten minutes later, I was still in the kitchen, slicing the last of the heirloom tomatoes, when he came back down, looking like a delightful treat.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“Sure. Come here,” I said, surprising him. Amory knew he was supposed to relax after work and let himself be served.
He came into the kitchen eagerly rubbing his hands. “What do you need?”
I crooked a finger. “Come closer.”
“Says the assassin with the fancy knife.”
I looked at the nakiri knife in my hand. “This isn’t an assassin knife, my heart. It’s for veggies.”
He chuckled and came closer. “Okay, if you say so. What do I do?”
“Open your mouth.”
He did, and I fed him the last bit of the juicy tomato.
“There. That’s all I need you to do in the kitchen tonight, Amory. Go sit at the table.”
Still chewing tomato, he gave me an indulgent look and slowly made his way around the kitchen island and sat, waiting for me.
“Soyer, can I ask you something?”
I assembled the sandwiches I’d made for us and sliced them diagonally. They had the tomato, shredded cabbage, spicy tempeh, pickles and cucumber slices along with homemade eggplant dip, not exactly baba ghanoush, but similar. I still got a kick out of thinking that Amory’s favorite food was eggplant.
“Always.”
I put the sandwiches on a nice serving plate and brought them and two extra plates and napkins over to the table. Amory, his elbows propped up, watched me and not the food, which was objectively pretty to look at.
“I know you don’t like talking about your past much.”
“Hmm.”
