Page 22 of The Alpha Escort Agency
He leans in a little closer, a strand of her hair brushing against his cheek. "I'll buy you a glass of champagne to go with it."
The group of Spanish tourists in front of them move away and they reach the stall.
"What'll it be?" asks the young trader, hands tucked into the front pocket of his apron.
"A glass of champagne and an oyster for the lady, please." Rory's hand hovers by her waist, his fingertips brushing her coat. The desire to rest his hand there properly growing stronger every moment.
"I don't know about this," she says as the trader turns around to fill up a champagne glass that he then hands to her. She peers up at Rory before taking a large gulp of the alcohol and then gingerly accepts the pale shell, pinching it between her thumb and finger.
She stares down at the slimy lump resting in the centre of its home.
"How do I do this?" Her nose twitches.
"All down in one, love," the trader says.
She peers back up at Rory, then holding his eye, flicks the shell up to her lips, throwing the oyster into her mouth and swallowing. Her cheeks bulge momentarily and her eyes swim with water. Quickly, she takes another swig of her drink.
"Want another?" the trader asks.
She shakes her head. "It was actually quite nice, but no." She turns to Rory. "Your go?"
"Nope, I can't stand the things. The texture is revolting." He fishes out a note from his wallet and pays the trader.
"You git," she says, pulling a face and bopping him on the chest as they walk away. "It was so slimy!" Catching her hand, he threads his fingers through hers.
"I'm impressed you tried it." He strokes the backs of her fingers with his thumb. "Now come on let's find you some food that will fill you up."
“Uh uh.” She shakes her head, a little smile flickering across her face.
“What?”
“Hmmm … let me see … this way.” She pulls him along, head swinging from side to side, weaving in and out of people, and then suddenly swerves to the left and stops before a stall selling Indian street food.
“What's your spiciest hottest dish?” she asks the market seller.
“These,” the woman answers, pointing to some triangular pastry parcels that look like samosas. “But they are very hot — filled with chilli.”
“We'll take one,” she says, peeking up at him with mischief in her eyes.
“Two,” he counters.
“Okay, but I warned you,” the lady says, shaking her head and lifting two of the parcels into a paper bag before handing them over to Alice, who tugs out her bank card from her purse and taps the contactless machine.
She offers the paper bag to him and he snatches out a pastry and twists it, examining it closely.
“Come on.” She jerks her head at him. “Eat up.”
He meets her gaze and takes a large bite. At first, the taste is pleasant, a blend of spices and meat, but then the heat hits his tongue with such velocity he winces.
“Shit!” He chews harder, the heat rushing across his mouth so that soon his tongue, his cheeks and even his gums are stinging and his eyes water. He swallows, forcing the food down his throat, the pain travelling along his gullet.
She's watching him and giggling, her whole body shaking with the laughter. She looks beautiful when she laughs like this, her eyes sparkling and her whole face lighting up.
“Holy shit,” he says, opening his mouth wide and gulping in air in a bid to cool his mouth. It only seems to make it worse, and tears stream down his cheeks.
“It can't be that bad.”
“You try it!”
