Page 16 of Nutcracker with Benefits
I shake my head, my face still too warm, my ears burning. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
“No. I’ll hold it over you for the rest of our lives.”
And then, because I can’t help myself, I lean over and kiss her. She’s still laughing, so it’s clunky, mostly kissing her teeth, but I do it anyway.
God, I love her.
Clara sobers, returning the kiss and cupping the back of my neck to keep me from pulling away. Her coat is open, so I slip my hand inside, splaying my fingers against her belly.
Which grumbles at me, vibrating against my skin.
We laugh again.
“Okay, let’s go get some food,” I say, pulling myself away from her and setting off to the exit.
A few minutes later, we arrive at the café, and I hold the door open for Clara. This one’s a hole-in-the-wall, but I hear it’s very good.
Clara doesn’t mind appearances. I can take her anywhere, and she’ll enjoy it, whether it’s fluorescent lighting and old linoleum floors or the hottest new restaurant in the city.
“Two for breakfast, please,” I tell the South Asian man behind the counter.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing. There are ten tables in the whole place, and only two of them are unoccupied. Clara’s the only white person in here.
The man from behind the counter brings us glasses of water.
“Where did you find this place?” Clara asks, looking around and slipping her coat onto the back of the chair.
“I can’t reveal my secrets,” I say. It took me longer than I would like to admit to plan this whole day. This particular place I found on a subreddit for Sri Lankans.
Her gaze returns to mine. “Will you at least tell me what we’re eating?”
The place is pretty nondescript. “Breakfast.”
She smacks my arm with the back of her hand. “Cheeky.”
A waiter comes out from the kitchen and starts to set plates down in front of us.
“Oh, we didn’t order these,” Clara says.
The server freezes, glancing at me.
“It’s fine, yeah.”
The plate, oblong and China-white with dozens of years’ worth of scratches on it, clacks on the table as he sets it down. Our plates are followed by small bowls for the center of the table, bright red and fragrant.
“Sambal,” the server says, pointing. “Kiri hodi and dhal.”
Each plate has two bowl-shaped items on it, and each bowl has a cooked egg in the center.
“There’s only one thing on the menu for breakfast here,” I explain. “This is called an egg hopper.”
Clara pokes at one of hers with her fork. “Is this…oh, it’s a batter, like a pancake! It’s a pancake bowl!”
She grins in amazement and pokes the lacy edges of the bowl again. Then her attention moves to the small dishes in the center. Clara dips her fork in each one, bringing it to her lips and tasting the condiments.
“Ho boy,” she says, and fans her mouth, sticking out her tongue. “Tha ones ‘ot.”
Nevertheless, Clara takes a big scoop of the condiment and plops it onto her egg hopper. Then she turns her fork to the side and uses the edge to cut the battered bowl.
