Chapter 2
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Teasing is my love language.
Kyran
In stories, there’s this thing that commonly happens with the grumpy/sunshine trope.
Allow me to explain.
See, the guy, who is usually the grump, acts all coarse and sometimes sarcastic and mostly irritated with the sunshine.
But then the POV flips, and the reader finds out that he’s smitten, besotted, helpless—annnnd unfortunately emotionally unavailable because his parents beat him or something… haha…crazy like that…
Now, am I a sunshine character?
Absolutely not.
Make no mistake, we are black cat versus black cat. If smile isn’t on page, I am not performing the action. But.
Still.
I am not oblivious.
Even if I only get, on average, a broken four hours of sleep a night and into the afternoon, I am more than aware of my surroundings and know how to read other “characters,” especially ones with my similar disposition.
Like Morana.
Who is currently overcome with bliss sipping hot chocolate out of a teacup, and who no doubt has had her chapter of mental besottedness where it concerns me.
I said I’d leave if my presence here bothered her.
Morana is the kind of woman who would say, “I hope the door hits you on the way out, bye,” unless—of course—she likes me.
At least a little bit. But, let’s be honest, she probably likes me a lot more than a little bit.
Her POV is probably raving about how wonderful she thinks I am, how pretty, how breathtaking, and smart, and cool, and funny…
I’m humble, all right? I’m just also realistic, and, don’t worry, I’ll claim my faults later to prove my point on that, but not right now.
Right now, I’m enjoying my time with my besotted little future wife while she enjoys hot chocolate in a tea house with me, her not-so-sunshine, still-so-smitten other half.
I reach for one of the two scones on her cute little cream tea tray bearing butter and jam and curd.
She swats my hand. “What do you say if you want something?”
“Please, my liege. Thy peasant starves. He fears his sandwiches shall never come.”
Her expression withers, but she nudges her scone plate toward me regardless. “This is what happens when you order seven full meals at the start of rush.”
My heart flutters for her.
Wow, Morana, make how much you love me more obvious, why don’t ya? First, you don’t tell me to get lost and now you’re sharing food?
I bet her mental love lament went on for ten whole pages.
“I have a science question,” I say.
Her dull gaze drags to me while I cut and butter my scone.
I present my scientific curiosities: “Do you think it’s possible to Lady and the Tramp a sandwich?”
Her wittle nose wrinkles. “Get your disgusting brain out of the gutter.”
“I don’t know if I can. It’s a little gutter hobbit.”
“It needs to go on a little hobbit adventure.”
“To find a better gutter?”
She takes the final scone and butters it while refusing to move her heavy attention off me for even a moment. Her weighty judgment presses.
I love it.
I love whenever Morana looks at me.
She adds lemon curd to her scone and is taking her first bite when my sandwiches begin arriving, two per large plate. With our pot of tea and pot of hot chocolate, the scone plate, and Morana’s side of mac and cheese, we can barely fit everything on the table.
It looks ridiculous.
“This is ridiculous…” Morana mutters under her breath, soulmating my thoughts, while our waitress beams, looking at me.
“Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Bachelor?”
“Yes, another scone for the lady.” I lift my delicacy. “I thieved.”
“Of course! I’ll be right back.”
“For the lady?” Morana’s eye twitches. “I thieved?”
“Like a tramp. Very naughty, me,” I tut, and select the chicken salad sandwich first, otherwise known as the most likely to get soggy.
She gags. “Don’t ever use that word again.”
“Why? Is naughty triggering for you?”
Her eyes roll to the ceiling. “Yes.”
I ponder a moment, then benevolently correct myself, “I’ve been a bad boy.”
“Somehow, that’s worse.” She stabs her macaroni, stuffing a bite in her mouth, then delight overcomes her face—by way of manic smile.
My grumpy girl smiles like a lunatic or not at all.
I love it.
Joy just bursts from her, unbidden and unexpected and violent.
It’s enough to soften the downturn of my lips when I say, “Do you want a bite of my chicken salad sandwich? It’s very moist.”
Delight banished, she spits, “Someone should kennel you, Kyran.”
“Your room or mine, mistress?”
Her nose scrunches up—again. “I do wish you wouldn’t ruin my meal. I worked hard for it.”
Yes, you did. I’m so proud of you. “I can go. I can ask for boxes when our waitress catches a break to bring us your scone. Or, if you don’t mind—” I begin to stand. “—you can bring my sandwiches home when you leave.”
“Sit down.”
Consider me sat.
As I stretch out again, my knee bumps hers, and she swallows, hard, gaze shooting down a moment before she continues eating like nothing’s amiss.
Leaving our legs mingling like fools in love, I lift my sandwich to my mouth and decide something very, very important about her POV chapter revealing how besotted she is.
Yeah.
It was twenty pages long, at least.