Page 72 of The Gathering
“I can do it!” she chirped, hurrying to show how hard she’d be to spoil, sliding a chair near the stove.
He remembered his idea about her phone. “I was told the Sister’s have phones. Was thinking I could get your number to help coordinate schedules.”
“Oh, I do, yes,” she said, fighting to get her apron strings tucked out of the way.
“I got it, before you spill your brew,” he said, setting his cup down. “Turn around.”
She flustered mildly then surrendered with a “Thank you. I’m not used to thesestrings.”
“I’ll tie it so it doesn’t come undone when the wind breathes on it.”
Her big laugh made him grin. “Perfect description! I’ve been dying to ask you so many questions,” she said, holding her cup in both hands as he took his time in her personal air space.
“Ask away.” Happy to kick off the intel swap. His own list of need to knows were really needing to know. Her scent. Her taste. The feel of her. Texture. Temperature. Weight. “All done,” he announced, grabbing his cup and pulling a chair next to hers.
“Thank you for that,” she said, taking her seat. “I have to admit that the Sister’s are very gossipy! But not in a mean way,” she assured with sweet conviction. “We just like cataloging people, it’s a useful habit, actually. We got that from assigning strengths where needed. Every sister was placed where she best performed unless it was training, then she was put where she wasn’t comfortable.”
“Smart,” he said, studying her tiny fingers wrapped around the white mug. No nail polish, no make-up ever.
Did she shave?
“So, where did I fit in the catalog?”
Her eyes widened with wonder and a smile. “That’s the problem, you’re very hard to catalog. But not to me,” she said with pride. “Now I’m needing to confirm I’m right.”
He had to laugh at that. “So confident, Sister.” He aimed his gaze at the flame in the potbelly stove. “Ask,” he said, sipping his coffee.
She beamed, thrilled, turning her whole body toward him. “These may seem silly but there’s a reason for them.”
His brows rose, interested. Slightly worried.
“Favorite color,” she began.
Hmm. So silly he didn’t know the answer.
“Overall color. I realize that’s actually a hard question, sorry.”
“Black,” he decided.
“Okay. Least favorite color.”
“Uuuum. Olive.”
“And favorite food.”
“Gumbo.”
She laughed at that, “Mine too! Now least favorite food.”
“Green peas.”
This got him a fond smile. “Favorite thing to drink with your meal.”
He stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. “I don’t drink with my meal.”
She angled her look. “After your meal?”
“Milk.” He grinned at her. “A big glass. All at once.”
