Page 43 of Shroom for Improvement

He chuckled and slotted those dirty fingers between each other. “Without fungi, there would be no plants, or animals, or humans, or fae. I really fucking love mushrooms.”

In this light, and with his black eyes, it was difficult to tell what was iris and what was pupil, but I could have sworn they were more dilated. His blush had returned and his lips parted by a sliver.

More reactions happened to my body, and not only in my pants area. My abdominal muscles tightened, the tiny hairs on my arms rose to attention. I wasn’t one to invite conversation—with anyone, regardless of the situation—so it was a novel experience for me when I leaned forward in my chair and half whispered, “Tell me more.”

A small cough from beside us pulled me out of the moment so quickly I almost got whiplash. Willow held a plate in each hand. They raised a single brow, passed their gaze overSonny and me, and their eyes went wide, as though they’d just caught us in a compromising situation.

Willow set a plate down in front of Sonny. “My apologies for interrupting.” They set mine down too.

“Not at all,” Sonny said, leaving me to wonder if I’d been in that moment alone. He glanced down at his plate and let out a bark of laughter. “Uh...”

I did the same.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Willow said, bobbing their weight from one foot to the other. “This is the first time Oggy has ever not fully trusted the process.”

I didn’t blame her. It must have been odd cooking that. But at that moment, I couldn’t imagine anything I fancied more.

“Sprouts, seven ways,” Willow declared, with a somewhat hesitant edge to their voice.

Sautéed sprouts. Grilled sprouts. Shredded sprouts in some kind of slaw. Breaded sprouts with what smelled like a parmesan crust. Smashed sticky-glazed sprouts. And a sprout and—I gave another sniff—fennel puree with more sprouts to dip.

“This is my fault. After we found the sprouts room, I developed a very severe craving for them,” Sonny said.

“Yeah, no, same,” I said, letting him know I was just as guilty in the manifestation of tonight’s dinner. “I’m gonna have to sleep with the windows open tonight.”

“Oh, my gods!” He threw back his head and laughed.

I decidedly did not stare at the column of his throat, or his Adam’s apple, or the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

Once Sonny’s mirth had subsided, he regarded me over a crispy-coated sprout speared on the end of his fork. “You’re a lot different from what I’d thought you’d be.”

“Different how?”

“Well, I was always told that shroom fae don’t...” He gave a nervous laugh. “That you guys don’t know how to have any fun. I thought the guy on the train, the one who prints my tickets and grunts and orders me to take my feet off the table... I thought that was you. But here you are making fart jokes.”

I wanted to tell him the same. That he was different. But Sonny was everything I’d imagined he’d be, and I realised in that moment, I’d imagined it way more often than I cared to admit. He was warmth, and lightness, and optimism, and passion, and rosy cheeks, and crooked smiles, and sexy, filthy fingers.

“I guess I was wrong about you, too,” I said.

“Oh?”

“I assumed, because of your type, you’d . . .”

“I’d what?”

“That you would be more of a...” I winced, couldn’t get the word out. I should know better, judging someone based on harmful stereotypes. Accusing them of wrongdoing.

Sonny shook his head. Plunged his hand into his pockets and placed a crystal salt cruet on the table. “Admittedly, I have a problem.” He reached into his other pocket and removed a glossy jigsaw-puzzle piece taken from my coffee table.

“Hey, that’s a corner piece!”

“I return everything. Eventually. I just can’t seem to stop myself from doing it. If it’s pretty and shiny and fits in the palm of my hand, it’s especially susceptible to my five-finger discount.” He let out a long sigh. “If that’s gonna be a big problem, I understand. I—”

“No,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “It’s not going to be a problem. But just so you know, I expect the things you’ve stolen from me to be returned once we’ve figured out this house-magic problem.”

“Right, yeah. The house magic.”

Seconds later, a sharp noise which could only be described as a bomb going off in a piano shop echoed above us, followed by a woman screaming.

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