Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(78)
“A hole in the wall?” I steered him around a display of “Chanel” umbrellas. “It literally is. And you don’t ever want to see the alley.”
“So we’re here because . . . ?”
“Because of that.” I sighed as a couple passed by us, the guy balancing four containers of dumplings while the girl shoveled them into both of their mouths.
He looked skeptical, but when we got closer and saw how long the line was, he became more intrigued. And when I finally popped that first pork dumpling into his mouth, salty and crackly on the outside from the hot wok, soft and chewy on the inside, the first thing he asked was, “Did we get enough?”
Four dumplings for one dollar. We got enough.
We spent the evening crisscrossing the streets of Chinatown, popping in and out of noodle houses and dim sum palaces, cheap and cheaper, better and best. We sat at crowded tables with other diners, traded stories about where they’d been and where we should try next. He ate piles of handmade noodles at Lam Zhou, ate mountains of shrimp-and-chive dumplings at Tasty, and had a religious experience with a pork bun at Nice Green Bo. He tried soup dumplings for the first time, biting into the hot little pocket and sucking out the hot broth, dipping the rest in vinegar and pronouncing it the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Which was followed up quickly by a searing kiss and assuring me that it was just a figure of speech and that I was still the best thing he ever tasted.
Until the firecracker shrimp showed up.
Chinatown gained another convert that night, and we finally headed back to my place at midnight, full of amazing food and cheap beer, having spent less than fifty bucks between us.
Cheapest date in Manhattan.
“I think I’m overstuffed, and not in a good way,” I whined as we went up the steps. “I’ve got a food baby.” I rubbed my belly in soothing circles. “I wonder if you can do Lamaze breathing for too many dumplings.”
Oscar was also stuffed. I’d warned him to stop after that last bowl of noodles, but he’d ordered a second. Big guy, big appetite. But everyone had a limit, and we’d both officially passed ours. “I wonder if that breathing works on guys as well,” he groaned, patting his still-perfectly-flat belly.
“It couldn’t hurt.” I turned the key in my lock. “You want coffee?”
“I can’t ingest another ounce,” he said, helping me with my coat and hanging it up, and then his. “I’m glad I’ve got the kids taking care of the cows tomorrow morning. I’m in no shape to drive back tonight.”
“Good, then I get you all night to myself.” I tucked myself into his arms and let him hold me for a moment, swaying a little back and forth just inside my door. I was suddenly struck by the hominess of it, the comfort of having someone’s arms waiting there for you when you got home, with a quiet hello and an on-demand snuggle.
I snuggled deeper as he ran his hands up and down my back, soothing and sweet. I could hear his heart beating through his clothing. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.
“I’m officially old,” I said softly.
“How’s that?”
“I’ve got this beautiful man in my apartment, and all I want to do is hug him and fall asleep. We’re officially old people.”
“Speak for yourself, Pinup. I could be up for some banging.”
I snorted, lifting my head to see his tired face grinning down at me. “Up for some banging? You must write poetry when you’re not making cheese.”
He slowly moved his hips back and forth a few times, in the most pitiful way possible. “Okay, I give. Too many dumplings. Sleep now, bang later.”
“Poetry, I tell you. Sheer poetry,” I teased as we walked toward the bedroom, scooping up his duffel bag on the way.
“I’ll give you poetry,” he said as we moved through the apartment, turning off lights as went. “Roses are red—”
“Oh man.”
“Hush, I’m creating a masterpiece here,” he said, tucking his chin into my shoulder as we walked. His breath was warm against my ear, tickling pleasantly. “Roses are red, violets are blue. I’m too tired to bang, but that’s okay because she is, too.”
“Bra-vo.” I clapped.
“Quiet, there’s a second part. Roses are red, violets are blue . . .” We were in the bedroom by now, and with his hands on my hips he turned me around, his arms snaking around my body, pulling me snugly against him. Dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose, he continued. “. . . I made her come seven times before we went out to eat dumplings, so there’s that—and something that rhymes with blue.”
I smiled. “I can’t really argue with that.”
“You shouldn’t argue, it’s a poem.”
“It’s a great poem.”
“All great poems are based in truth.”
“Truth?”
“Seven times, Pinup.” He grinned proudly. “Seven times.”
I laughed, pushing him down onto the bed. “We’re going for eight next time.”
We undressed, brushed our teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.
Well, almost immediately. Twenty minutes after I fell asleep I was awakened by his grumbling about it being too loud, and how could anyone sleep in this damn city?