Page 17 of My Turkish Fling
“Good morning!” A wide smile rose from deep inside of me, and I waited for him to turn around.
Emir looked up. “Günaydin!Good morning.” There was no smile, but a relaxed softness to him I hadn’t seen before.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you. It’s a comfortable bed.”
“Good.” I peered into the pan. “Menemen?”
“Yes.” He looked surprised.
“Wait. You got the tomatoes from the garden?” My stomach dropped at the thought. My garden was such a mess I’d been hoping to keep him out of it and fetch the produce myself. I glimpsed at him from behind my face palm. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had the time to… The storm flattened all the stakes and I let the tomatoes grow into that heap.”
“It’s okay. The best ones were hiding in the middle. I suppose the birds can’t get to them.” Emir ladled the red mush onto two plates and took them to the dining table where he’d already sliced the flatbread.
A pot of tea stood in the middle, steam rising from it. I fought tears. I hadn’t shared breakfast with anyone, let alone a man, in more than a year. And the last time hadn’t been that enjoyable. I worked hard not to revisit those memories, but standing there, staring at the perfect spread of food on my table, the thoughts bombarded me, clouding my vision.
“Is something wrong?” Emir’s thick accent made me shiver.
“It’s beautiful,” I managed, my voice wobbly and thick. “So beautiful.”
“It’s a very basic breakfast.” He sounded almost offended.
I took a breath and looked him in the eye. “No one has done this for me in a very long time. So, it’s beautiful. No arguments.”
His arms dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then I’m glad.” He met my gaze with such sincerity, letting that unhurried moment of connection shift and stretch, that I didn’t notice the tear until it rolled all the way to my upper lip.
He caught it with his fingertip, never breaking the eye contact. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I turned away, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Sorry. I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll try to keep my issues at bay and enjoy the food.” I took a deep breath and gave him a reassuring smile.
“I prefer real. I can’t do the pretending very well.” His eyes flashed with pain.
I blinked away the last of my stubborn tears. “I get it. But I don’t want to dump my issues on you. It’s not fair.”
“We all have issues.” He kept looking at me until I dropped the smile.
“Yeah, we do.”
“If you felt comfortable sharing your issues with me, I’d be honored, Janie.” He held my gaze until the words faded, and only the meaning lingered, unchanged. He wasn’t being polite.
I’d interviewed politicians and celebrities. I was used to looking for the truth behind meaningless, self-absorbed babble. What was left unsaid? What was implied? With Emir, my journalist skills were useless. So much hid behind his eyes, yet his words felt true.
“Likewise,” I finally responded, turning away to catch my breath. “I’d be honored, if you decided I was worth your trust.”
His eyes darkened and the forehead crease deepened. “Let’s eat.”
He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair. I dropped onto the seat, thinking that this was the first time I’d been offered a chair in my own dining room.
I scooped a forkful of menemen and moaned from pleasure. “This is so good! I remember trying this somewhere in Antalya, but it wasn’t like this.”
Emir scoffed. “Antalya is a tourist trap.”
“Well, this is the real deal.”
“It’s the best I could do with local ingredients.”
“Take the compliment, Emir.” I gave him a pointed look.
