Page 25 of Nine-Tenths

"Thanks."

"How's it healing?"

"Just fine. Barely hurts any more." I shove my hand back into my pocket to support it all the same.

His mouth twists to one side. "You needn't lie to me, Colin."

"I'm not."

He looks at me like he can read the truth on my skin, but leads the way all the same.

Chapter Eight

Dav inspects the kitchen’s refurbishment with proprietary interest. Which makes sense, as he did pay for it all.

Everything gleams, but the layout has stayed the same: prep station on the wall to the left of the door, washing station on the far left wall, oven and roaster on the right, and cabinets and industrial fridges framing the second exit on the wall opposite. St. Paul Street backs onto a ravine, so the rear exit opens onto a dingy deck on stilts, populated by a rusting bistro set.

A stainless steel table takes up most of the remaining floor space in the kitchen. If there's more than two people working, you have to scootch, and youwillget flour, or soap bubbles, or coffee dust on your ass.

I show all of this to Dav before we come to thepiece de resistance—the old manual roaster. I trained on this beast, back when Beanevolence first opened. It's fourth-hand, all Hadi could afford when she started this venture. And it pretty much takes up the whole table. It's shaped sort of like a steam train engine. Except instead of smoke coming out of the big funnel, that's where we pour in the green beans. The conductor's cabin is a cylindrical drum turned by hand crank, heated from below with a row of flames fed by a camping propane cylinder. The cow-catcher out front of the train is a basin, where roasted beans are raked out of the cylinder to cool.

Have I mentioned the kitchen is small? Dav is standing so close I can feel the soothing heat coming off him. So I wasn't hallucinating his warmth in the hospital, even if I was seeing something more there. I wonder if his human friends fall asleep around him all the time. It'd be nice to cuddle on a sofa and—whoa, no, time out.

"Ready to get cracking?" I force a laugh at the in-joke before I realize he doesn't get it.

"I thought we were meant to see if I could roast the beans myself instead of using the machine?" Dav asks.

"We can try that after lunch," I say, opening the pantry. It's already been stocked with fresh, big sacks of beans. My stupid heart is fluttering in my throat, and I focus on the job instead of the fact that I just implied we'd be having lunch together.Not a date!"That way, we'll at least have one batch ready for tomorrow if the you-roasting doesn’t work out. Grab that."

Dav hefts up one of the big bags with no visible effort. I swallow hard, absolutelynotwatching the way his shoulders flex through the silk backing of his waistcoat.

"And now?"

"Uh, a third of the bag, into the funnel. We need, um, scissors, hold on," I turn in a circle, looking for them. Behind me there'sa quick, delicate ripping noise, then the ping of hard beans dancing inside the copper funnel. I whip back to catch Dav pulling his finger out of a neat, vertical slice in the bag, already human-shaped again.

"They're sharp."

"I remember," I reply, touching my wounded arm, and before he can apologize again, I jump back into the instructions. "I'll light the pilot."

I'm crouched to peer up under the machine, struggling with the matches, when Dav's face appears through the gap on the other side.

"Where are you meant to be lighting?"

I show him the spot, and move to hand him the box, when he purses his lips. The bone-click is softer this time, but no less startling coming from a human-looking throat. He blows a thin flame at the touchpoint. The propane ignites with a softfwump, and the rest of the burners pop on gently.

I stop breathing.

Flames in my face, the whoosh of oxygen igniting, the particular brimstone-scent of dragon's fire… bright orange in the center of my vision, my arm throbbing…shit! I fall hip-first against the prep counter behind me, sharp and painful. I turn and clutch the edge of the counter, squeezing hard to ground myself in the bite of it.

Five things I can see—the wall in front of me, covered in stainless steel shelving, filled with bowls and pans. My hands, shaking. Fresh bins of flour under the worktop. A balled up napkin in the corner, where Hadi had missed the garbage. The inside of the door with its hand-written sign:Knock on the door, don't knock out your coworkers.Four things I can touch—my feet on the ground, my palms to one another, the napkin as I nudge it into the bin, the smooth steel of the worktop. I hear the susurrus of the flames, the pop of the drum heating up, the clinkof the beans settling. I smell the first rich aroma of coffee, the spice of my deodorant being put through its paces. I taste clean air, no trace of oily smoke.

"Colin?" Dav says when I finally release a deep breath and straighten.

"I'm fine. I was just… it surprised me. Um," I swallow hard, pushing through, and turn to face him. I try to look nonchalant, not like I just fended off a panic attack in front of him. Again. "I… had a sense memory moment. Fire in my face. But it's passed!" I add when his fussy eyebrows do that complicated wiggle of guilt.

Dav growls at himself, hands jammed into his pockets. "I can never seem to get it right—"

"Just a bit of warning next time." I dare myself to mean it. My heart twists to see how hard on himself he is. "You didn't mess up anything."

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