“I stand by it. Sweet and salty is classic. Like depth of flavor. Complexity.” She shrugs. “Culinary science.”
“You’re defending milkshake fries with culinary science?”
“Don’t be mad because you liked it.”
I lean in, drop my chin to my hand, and give her a slow smile. “I like a lot of things I shouldn’t.”
Her breath hitches. Just slightly. But she doesn’t break eye contact.
The waitress drops the pie on the table with a wink, says something about how we look “too cozy to be new,” and walks away without waiting for a response.
Genevieve picks up her fork, stabbing a piece of my pie without looking at me.
“Chef jail isn’t a thing.”
I grin, wide and unrepentant.
We finish the meal. Neither of us mentions our deal. That we’re acting like a normal couple having breakfast, because naming it might break it, and right now, sitting across from her in a diner booth with cherry pie on my fork and her laugh in my ears, I don’t want anything to break. I don’t think about Art. I don’t think about Bors. I don’t think about Myrddin or the Lye or the blood that was on my hands a few hours ago.
I think about her.
And for the first time in six years, that feels like enough.
The sun is starting to set by the time we get back to the room. We spent the day doing nothing. Walking through the small town. Sitting on a bench outside the hardware store making up stories about the strangers walking by. She found a used bookstore and spent twenty minutes judging every cookbook on the shelf while I leaned against the doorframe and watched her.
I could do this forever.
Most likely, I won’t get to. I know that. Tomorrow is Boston, and her father, and whatever comes after. But today was ours, and I’m going to be selfish about it because I’ve earned at least one selfish thing in my life.
Genevieve kicks off her shoes and curls up on the creaky motel bed, her back against the headboard. She’s flushed from the walk, cheeks pink, hair tangled from the wind.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me.
“I know.”
“It’s creepy.”
“And?”
She glances over, and whatever she sees on my face makes her expression shift. “What’s wrong?”
“I keep thinking about tomorrow. About what happens when we get to Boston. When you see your father.”
Her expression closes off, just a little. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow.”
“Then what do you want to think about?”
She sets down the remote and looks at me. Her green eyes catch the last of the daylight flickering through the blinds.
“I want to think about tonight. I want to think about this room and this bed and the fact that for the next few hours, nobody knows where we are. Nobody can find us. Nobody can tell us what to do or who to be.”
She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I’ve never had that before,” I say.
“I thought I did once, but it was just another way someone was pulling the strings.”
Her voice cracks, and I know she means Art. And maybe her dad. All of it.