Page 147 of Obey

Nate looks amused. “Acceptable?”

“I was going to call you pretentious, but unfortunately this is delicious.”

“What an absolute tragedy, Sola.”

Dinner arrives in courses small enough to annoy me until I actually taste them. Somewhere between the second and third, the conversation shifts without me noticing.

Nate asks about the magnolia tattoo beneath my ribs.

“My grand-mère,” I tell him, tracing the stem of my wineglass with one finger. “She had one in her yard. Huge thing. You could smell it before you even made it to the porch.”

I smile as the memory comes back. “Summers so hot you’d walk outside and immediately regret every decision that led you there. My mama would have all the windows shut, air on sixty-eight, and still be in the kitchen cooking enough food for fifteen people.”

“How many were actually there?”

“Depends on the Sunday.” I laugh. “Five kids, my parents, whichever cousins had wandered in, an auntie who swore she was only stopping by for five minutes and stayed six hours. Somebody was always yelling from one room to another.”

“That explains certain things.”

I point my fork at him. “Watch yourself.”

He actually laughs. Not the faint exhale he uses when Jace says something ridiculous. Not the almost-smile he gives Elias when they’re communicating in that weird psychic-married-people language of theirs.

A real laugh.

It changes his whole face, and I stare long enough that he notices.

“What?”

“You have a nice laugh.” The expression disappears immediately as his cheeks redden. “Oh, my God. Did I embarrass you?”

“No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

I grin into my wine. “It’s adorable.”

His eyes narrow. “Let me remind you, Sola. I am keeping tally and intend to collect for your cheek later.”

The promise beneath the words warms me straight through, but for once, he lets it stay there instead of turning dinner into foreplay.

I like that more than I expected.

“So what about you?” I ask. “Were you born thirty-seven years old with a spreadsheet in your hand, or was there ever a feral little Nate running around causing problems?”

“I was not feral,” he says, sounding almost offended by the suggestion. “I was organized. By six, I had a system for putting away my toys.”

Shaking my head, I pick up my fork. “Nathaniel, that might be the saddest childhood confession I've ever heard.”

“My sister said the same thing.”

I lower my glass. “You have a sister?”

“And a brother.”

“And somehow, in all the time we've spent together, you never thought to mention them?”