2. Delight and Divination
DELIGHT AND DIVINATION
Rafael snorted. “I rarely go out in public for that reason. People stare. They ask intrusive questions. That, and low-hanging light fixtures are the bane of my existence.” His mouth twisted. “I miss the days when I could hide in my cave and mail off sheet music without speaking to anyone.”
“Sorry to break your hermit streak.” Not sorry at all.
His lips curled into an almost-smile, feline and mysterious. “I have never seen anyone react that way to my music, especially not that piece. Normally, I am a grumpy, reclusive bastard, but you have gifted me a rare good mood. And this book, which has also danced to my music.”
“Why do I have a feeling your tongue is more intimidating than your muscles?” I gestured at the size of him. “You must be the buffest music nerd I’ve ever met.”
Rafael cocked an eyebrow. “You must not know many metalheads.”
“I meant classical music nerd! Or at least the buffest composer.” Definitely the tallest. With the sexiest voice. And the best hair. And I really needed to get my shit under control. How much of my silliness was actual attraction and how much was just delirious fangirling?
“I will accept ‘buffest composer’. Thank you for not calling me an alpha. Much as I enjoy intimidating awful straight men, I hate that shit.” He stopped beneath the cherry-red awning of a landmark Art Deco building on the corner.
Green flag! “Oh, that’s a relief. I hate it too.”
Similar in shape to the Flatiron in New York, the patinaed copper facade rose many stories above our heads, ending in a gold-topped onion cupola. Graceful, gorgeous, and a little gaudy—just how I like my men. I giggled internally.
“Let us bond over shared hatred, then.” Rafael opened the gilded door for me.
A warm gust of air brought with it a whiff of coffee, cardamom, and rose.
The café was dark and a little cramped due to the acute triangular footprint of the building, but it was spotless under the maximalist décor.
Poufs and comfortable-looking leather chairs clustered around a variety of lacquered tables.
The barista behind the counter—a stunning young woman with dark, soulful eyes, a strong nose, and flawless skin all wrapped in a cream hijab—immediately struck up a conversation with Rafael in another language.
Arabic, or maybe Farsi? She gestured at me with obvious surprise.
His responses were terse and dismissive.
God, what if she was an ex-girlfriend? Or worse, a current girlfriend?
My rounded Celtic features and boob-heavy body with my authorial uniform of a t-shirt, jeans, and my grown-out pink shag made for a drab comparison.
Even if I did a full beat and wore my favorite breasting boobily dress, this gazelle of a woman would outshine me. She could outshine me in a paper sack.
Elaine, fucking stop it. What on earth was I thinking, being jealous of a total stranger who’d done nothing to me? The barista had sweet, friendly vibes, and here I was acting like a harpy.
Rafael turned to me. “Do you like Turkish coffee, or would you prefer something else?”
“I love Turkish coffee! And sweet, please, but like half sweet?”
The barista leaned around him and flashed a brilliant smile. “He’s also buying you the milk cake. It’s the best thing we make.” Her musical accent only increased her charm.
Rafael muttered something irritable in their shared language. She jabbed a finger at the bake case, then at his face.
He sighed in defeat. “Do you like pastries, Elaine? You are welcome to order any—”
“Of course she does! Go, go, I’ll bring it to your spot.” The barista waved us away.
Her enthusiasm was infectious. I’d just eat the cake and deal with the tummy fallout later; I always had Lactaid and Benadryl in my purse. Hopefully, the gods of food tolerance would look upon me with favor.
Rafael nodded toward a sturdy-looking divan upholstered in tufted burgundy velvet, situated against the far wall.
A young man with a book and an empty teacup occupied it.
The pretty barista came out and fussed at the man in that same language.
He argued until his eyes lit on the approaching giant and quickly decided he had better places to be.
“Is it like this everywhere you go?” I tracked the young man’s disappearance through the side door. A little concerning, if my erstwhile new friend felt entitled to VIP treatment.
“Yusuf works here,” Rafael said.
“And Yusuf’s break was over 20 minutes ago,” the barista chimed in from behind the espresso machines in a singsong voice clearly meant to reach Yusuf’s ears.
Rafael settled onto the divan, leaning against the single arm with the ease of long familiarity.
As no other seating presented itself, I perched beside him. “I take it you come here a lot.”
“He owns the whole building,” the barista sang out.
My eyes popped wide. This entire historical landmark building? In this city? My vague estimation of his net worth shot up.
“Zainab!” Rafael barked, his face distorting into a fierce scowl. “You know damn well not to tell anyone that.”
“You are welcome for the help!” The barista—Zainab—peered around the machines and winked theatrically at me. “You must tell me if Mr. Nazim is mean to you. This awful man is all vinegar.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“Like the little sister I never wanted,” he grumbled.
I giggled. “You did say you were a grumpy bastard. Was that your first language?”
“No, Turkish is my first.”
How could I have forgotten Rafael Nazim was Turkish? Thank god he didn’t quiz me.
He twisted to glare at the kitchen and raised his voice. “I speak Arabic here because Zainab cannot be assed to learn Turkish in a fucking Turkish coffee shop!”
The clinking of dishes in the kitchen grew distinctly louder.
If I’d had a fan, I would have shamelessly used it on myself. “Not a polyglot, too! How many languages do you speak?”
“Seven fluently. Turkish, Arabic, Italian, English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. I am passingly conversational in Farsi and Greek, and I have enough Russian to pick a fight.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Romance languages are easy once you learn the first one.”
Romance, indeed. “Damn, I should brush up on my Spanish.”
“You should.” Rafael tilted his head. “Bir dil bir insan, iki dil iki insan. Turkish saying; ‘One person, one language. Two people, two languages.’ Speak more, and you become more.”
“I like that.”
Zainab bustled over a with two cezves full of steaming coffee, matching cups, and an enormous serving of the milk cake. A pink, gelatinous cube coated with powdered sugar rested on each saucer. As Rafael opened his mouth, she shushed him.
“You need some sweetness in your life.” She gave me a meaningful look, perfect brows raised, and skipped off.
Impossible not to like her. I reached for my coffee pot.
Rafael swatted my hand away. “This was my idea. Let me serve you.” Despite their size, his hands were elegant and long-fingered. A musician’s hands. With a musician’s sensitive fingers. Whew, down girl. He poured from the copper pot into my tiny porcelain cup with nimble precision.
“Do you do this for all the ladies? It’s very charming.” The coffee was everything I wanted it to be—smooth, bold, and full-bodied, with just enough sweetness to soften the bitter edge on my tongue.
“Hardly.” Rafael cast another glare at the kitchen.
“Zainab is extra obnoxious today because I never bring anyone here. I hope now she will stop trying to introduce me to her insufferable friends and relatives. At this rate, she will have wedding invitations made up by the time we leave.” He cleared his throat and looked away, sweeping a hand backward over his hair.
I tried to spare him. “Well, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this building, so I’m extra grateful for the coffee, and I don’t mind being a shield against insufferable friends and relatives. I’m tougher than I look.”
“I do not doubt that.” Rafael sipped his coffee. The small cup was like a doll’s toy in his huge hand. “I would invite you up to my apartment for a tour, but that implies expectations I do not harbor.” He winced. “I am making it worse.”
I laughed and speared a chunk of the cake. “You totally are. It’s kind of adorable though.”
“This is why I speak to no one.”
I smiled over my tiny coffee cup. “I’m glad you spoke to me. You have a beautiful voice, and it made my whole year! I promise I won’t fangirl too hard.”
Rafael expelled a breath through his long nose at ‘fangirl’. I picked it up the confection on my saucer, eyeing it.
“Lokum,” he said. “You probably know it as Turkish Delight.”
I put it down with exaggerated care. “Well, now I’m scared to eat it. What if you’re secretly the White Witch and I’m about to sell out my family?”
“I would rather be Aslan.” Rafael covered his cup with the saucer, swirled the coffee grounds, and flipped them over.
That he knew the book so well thrilled my fantasy-loving soul. “Oh, you’re the Jesus lion? But that would mean cutting your mane off.”
That spark of mischief was back in his eyes. “Maybe I like the idea of being tied to a stone slab and sacrificed.”
I choked on my own spit, coughing into my napkin. “Sir!”
Rafael chuckled low in his throat and had mercy on me. “You know Aslan is just the Turkish word for lion, yes?”
“It is not!” I looked it up on my phone. It was. “How have I gone my whole life not knowing this?”
The chuckle became a laugh. “They make this rose-flavored lokum here. Try it.”
Cautiously, I nibbled at a corner of the confection.
Soft and chewy, the floral sweetness came as a delightful surprise.
“Oh, this is so much better. Ok, Edmund may have had a point. The only other time I’ve ever had it, it was dry and kinda hard.
” I shoved the rest into my mouth. “You said this one was rose? Do you have a favorite flavor?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I do not like lokum, but watching you have your Narnia moment was entertaining.”
My turn to laugh. “You big jerk!”
“I keep warning you. Do you write full-time, nerd girl?”