Petty?
Maybe.
Satisfying?
Absolutely.
“You can just say it,” I continued. “My tastes are plebeian, and you’d literally rather eat dirt than subject yourself to something as basic as avocados on sourdough. I’m too poor for good food.”
He straightened, and the change was immediate. “Actually, yes. Probably.”
My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
That careless shrug made another appearance. “I need to go, though. Scope out the competition, if you will. I’m inviting you along because I want to catch up. Mix a bit of business and pleasure. If there is any pleasure to be had in this conversation. Honestly, I’m not convinced.”
Upper hand traded back. In the form of a slap across the face. Xavier Sato: Two. Frankie Zola: One. Or maybe just one-half.
Dammit.
I crossed my arms tightly. “I don’t think I’m interested. For one, I don’t like fish.”
He stared at me like I had just grown three heads. “You don’t like fish? Who doesn’t like fish?”
I waved my hand. “Plenty of people. I had some bad clams when I was a kid. Put me off them for life.”
He shook his head, muttering something like “bloody woman” under his breath. “Fine. You can have chicken teriyaki on a skewer. Maybe they’ll have some day-old rice you’d prefer.”
“No, I’m good with some tea and a book. Enjoy, though.”
We stood there for a moment, bristling at each other outside of the bookshop without even moving out of the way of three separate people that left the place, forcing them to walk through our matched scowls.
At last, Xavier exhaled visibly through his long nose as he peered into the shop. “Fine. We’ll go where you like.”
“Even if it’s a bookstore?”
“I love bookshops,” he pronounced with the same enthusiasm people talk about the dentist. “Books are…excellent. Great…stories. Lots of…words.”
“Oh, really? What’s your favorite?”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Xavier replied automatically.
No. There was no way.
“Your favorite book is a domestic romance about a bookish second daughter and a grumpy gentleman who reluctantly falls in love with her?” I snorted, pulling my coat closer. “Please. What’s your favorite part?”
He gave me a look that said he wasn’t playing this game anymore. “Right, then. Harry Potter. The Bible. Pick whatever you think is most believable.”
“How about Machiavelli’s The Prince?” I suggested coyly.
His eyes glimmered with something that approximated humor.
But before he could reply, his stomach emitted a loud growl that could be heard even over the passing traffic. I stifled a grin. The twitch in his mouth was more pronounced.
“Let’s hurry,” he said. “I’ve got to eat something, or else it’s you for dinner, babe. And I don’t think you’d like to know what I’d make of that.”
* * *
Ten minutes later,I was seated in the back of NovelTea at a tiny table for two while Xavier waited near the bar for our respective orders. Tea and toast for me, beer and salad for him. After learning that the majority of the food served here was delivered premade, the salad was the only thing he was willing to eat.