Page 151 of Claimed At First Sight
Then her gaze drops to the untouched pastry in front of me, and the contentment fades into a small frown.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“I don’t have a sweet tooth like you.”
She rolls her eyes. One of the more dramatic versions.
I’ve counted seventeen different eye rolls in Mia’s repertoire so far, each conveying a subtly different degree of exasperation. A few suggest she’s contemplating homicide.
This particular one is pure displeasure.
“That’s because you haven’t tried these genovesi yet.”
She nudges my plate toward me. “Try it.”
The anticipation on her face makes refusal impossible. I reach for the pastry, enjoying how invested Mia is in watching me.
When I take a bite, she smiles.
And it’s not the polite smile she uses for strangers, or the sarcastic one she reserves for me when she’s being difficult. This one is genuine, warm enough to transform her entire face.
“Well?”
I take my time chewing while Mia watches me with an intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations.
The pastry is warm and surprisingly delicate. The custard filling is smooth, the citrus notes pleasant enough. But it’s far too sweet.
“It’s acceptable,” I say.
Her jaw drops. “Acceptable?”
As expected, she doesn’t appreciate that response.
I shrug. “It’s food.”
“It’s excellent food.”
Another bite disappears before she points accusingly at the pastry in my hand.
“You clearly like it.”
“I didn’t say I don’t.”
“You called it acceptable.”
“Which it is.”
Her outrage is entertaining. Sweets have never held much appeal for me. My tastes run toward stronger things. Bitter things. Things that linger.
She lets out an exasperated huff. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” I tease and am rewarded with another eye roll.
Number twelve, perhaps: aggrieved disbelief. Or possibly thirteen: mild contempt.
“We’ll have to work on that,” I tell her, my eyes narrowing.
She steals the last genovesi from my plate and is about to take a bite when my words register. The pastry freezes inches from her mouth.
