Twice Upon A Time (Unfinished Fairy Tales #2)(74)
“Is that all right with you, Kat?” Edward says, frowning. “I thought you missed spicy food.”
“Oh no, I’d love to try it. I was just wondering if it’s all right with you. Have you ever had a spicy dish in your life?”
He smiles gently. “My tastebuds are of little consequence. Since you have promised to stay, it is natural that I would want you to miss as little of your own world as possible. I cannot replace your family, but I would like to make sure that your life here is not lacking in other areas.”
My heart is overflowing with love for him. God, what have I done to deserve such a wonderful husband? When we get into our carriage, I draw up the curtains and climb into his lap. I lay my head against his chest and thread my fingers through his. At first he stiffens, perhaps surprised that I would take the initiative, but then his arms close around me and he fits his chin in the crook of my neck. We stay there in a comforting embrace, no words spoken between us. But I know that he and I share the same mind. I am here for good, and nothing shall separate us.
35
When Edward opens the door of the restaurant and ushers me inside, the aroma of spices gives me an excellent first impression. Cumin, coriander, cilantro, cinnamon, cloves—along with a lot of other spices I can’t name but smell great—are here in plentiful supply.
“Oh my God.” I close my eyes for a moment and inhale deeply. “It smells like heaven in here.”
When I open my eyes, I find Edward watching me, his expression both amused and tender. “Kat, I cannot tell the difference between you and a puppy that senses a juicy bone nearby.”
“Hey.” I pretend to look offended. “That is not a compliment a man gives to a lady.”
“For a lady as remarkable as you, I would say the comparison is apt.”
“That’s why you need me to edit your drafts, if that’s the best comparison you can come up with.”
“A mouse, then.” His eyes twinkle. “When you sniffed the air, you resembled a mouse twitching its nose.”
His analogy is so atrocious that I have no idea whether to laugh, cry, or karate punch him on his chest. Lucky for him, Edward is saved from public humiliation when the waitress comes bustling over to us.
“Table for two?” Her eyes practically sparkle as she gazes at Edward.
“Yes.” Edward instantly switches to poker-face-mode. “We would appreciate a table out of the way.”
“Of course!” she chirps, showing a dimpled smile. “Come along this way, sir.”
The restaurant is small, cozy, and crowded. It reminds me of a cute little Thai place near Jason’s college campus. Lively folk music blares from a trio strumming on instruments that look like banjos. As Edward says, without expensive clothes and jewelry, we mingle easily in the crowd, although when we are led to our table, quite a few women are stealing glances at Edward. Even with the glasses, he’s hot in a nerdy way—like a young professor. Combined with a distinct noble air, from the way he helped me off the carriage to the cultured accent he uses when talking to the waitress, I can’t help feeling privileged to be out on a date with him.
We’re shown to a tiny booth in a corner. It’s so small that it can’t seat more than two. When I sit down, the chair creaks and the table wobbles a little. The napkins are rough, and the red-checkered tablecloth is old and worn, but I don’t mind. The less-than-perfect conditions of the restaurant make me more at ease than the fancy dinners at some of the aristocrats’ places. I don’t have to worry about the various eating utensils or keeping modern me at bay when conversing with those lords and ladies.
“What would you like to have?” the waitress asks, pulling a lead pencil from her apron pocket. She directs her full attention on Edward (no surprise there), who merely indicates his chin at me.
“Whatever she wants.”
My cheeks heat up, and I know it has nothing to do with the coal stove burning in the back of the room. I glance at the menu, which is written in chalk on a blackboard. In Athelia, the closest thing I had gotten to reading a menu was at this dinner party, in which the hostess took the trouble of having each course written up in an elaborately folded card, though it’s useless for me—the names of the food sound more like French than English.
Here, the food is a kind of Indian/Mexican comfort food with some non-spicy options for customers like Edward. After a moment’s consideration, I order a hearty chicken soup flavored with spicy peppers, potatoes fried in cumin and sprinkled with lemon juice, chickpeas dipped in a spicy tomato sauce, boiled white rice, and a watercress-and-bacon sandwich for Edward.
After the waitress leaves, I take the jug on the table and pour two glasses of water. It feels a bit strange; at those aristocrats’ houses, I’m used to fluttering my fingers at a liveried servant and asking if I could have my glass filled. Then I notice Edward staring at the condiment holder, which contains a row of petite glass jars and wooden spoons. They’re quaint, really, and much better than the ugly plastic containers I usually get in chain diners.
“There is no price tag,” he says gravely, examining a jar of dark red sauce.
“It’s provided gratis. You use whatever amount you prefer on your food.”
He uncorks the jar and gazes at the contents, his expression so serious that I have to stifle a grin.