Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(21)

“How?” He sounded suspicious.

“Because my brother is missing at war.”

Roman blinked, as if he couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth. She could hardly believe it either. She thought she would instantly regret telling him something so intimate, but she discovered the opposite. It was a relief to finally voice the words that constantly shadowed her.

“I know you hate sandwiches,” she added, tucking a curl behind her ear. “But I’m going to a deli to buy two, to eat on the park bench. If you want my help, then you’ll know where to find me. I’ll try to resist eating the second sandwich, in case you decide to come, but I make no promises.”

She began to stride to the door before the sentence had even cleared her mouth. It felt like a coal was smoldering in her chest as she waited for the slow-as-tar lift. She was halfway mortified until she felt the air stir at her elbow. Iris knew it was Roman without looking at him. She recognized his cologne—some heady mix of spice and evergreen.

“I don’t hate sandwiches,” he said, and he sounded more like his old self.

“You dislike them, though,” Iris stated.

“I’m simply too busy for them. They’re a distraction. And distractions can be dangerous.”

The lift doors opened. Iris stepped inside, turning to look at him. A smile teased her lips.

“So I’ve heard, Kitt. Sandwiches are quite troublesome these days.”

She suddenly had no idea what they were discussing—if it truly was about sandwiches or about her or about how he regarded her or about this tentative moment they were sharing.

He hesitated so long that her smile faded. Tension returned to her posture.

You’re a fool, Iris, her mind railed. He’s engaged! He’s in love with someone. He doesn’t want to share lunch with you. He only wants your help with his article. Which … why on the gods’ bloody earth are you helping him?

She turned her attention to the switchboard, pressing the button repeatedly, as if the lift would hurry up and carry her away.

Roman joined her just before the doors closed.



* * *



“I thought you said this place had the best pickles,” Roman said, twenty minutes later. He was sitting on a park bench beside Iris, unwrapping his sandwich from its newspaper. A thin, sad pickle rested on top of the bread.

“No, that’s the other place,” Iris said. “They make the best everything, but they’re closed on Mir’s Day.”

Thinking of the gods and the days of the week made her mind stray to the letter, currently hiding in her bag, resting on the bench between her and Roman. She had been shocked when she had woken up to it. A literal pile of paper, full of a myth she was hungry to learn. A myth where the eithrals were mentioned.

She wondered who this correspondent was. How old were they? What gender were they? What time were they?

“Hmm.” Roman set aside the pickle and took a bite of his sandwich.

“Well?” Iris prompted.

“Well what?”

“Is the sandwich to your liking?”

“It’s good,” Roman said, taking another bite. “It would be better if that sad excuse of a pickle hadn’t made part of the bread soggy.”

“That’s high praise, coming from you.”

“What exactly are you implying, Winnow?” he countered sharply.

“That you know exactly what you want. Which isn’t a bad thing, Kitt.”

They continued to eat, the silence awkward between them. Iris was beginning to regret inviting him until he broke the quiet with a shocking admission.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “I feel compelled to apologize for something I said a few months ago. When you stepped into the office for the first time, I let my prejudice get in the way, thinking that because you failed to graduate from school you would give me no trouble.” Roman paused, opening his sandwich to rearrange the tomato and the cheese and to toss away the slice of red onion. Iris watched him with slight fascination. “I’m sorry for making assumptions about you. It was wrong of me.”

She didn’t know how to reply. She hadn’t anticipated Roman Condescending Kitt ever apologizing to her. Although she supposed she never thought she’d be sitting beside him in the park, eating a sandwich with him either.

“Winnow?” He glanced at her, and for some strange reason, he sounded nervous.

“Were you trying to run me off?” she asked.

“At first, yes,” he said, brushing imaginary crumbs off his lap. “And then when you nabbed the first assignment and I read your article … I realized you were far more than I had imagined. That my imagination was quite narrow. And you deserved to be promoted should you earn it.”

“How old are you, Kitt?”

“How old do I look to you?”

She studied his face, the slight stubble on his chin. Now that she was sitting so close to him, she could see the cracks in his “perfect” appearance. He hadn’t shaved that morning—she figured he had run out of time—and her eyes moved to his shock of sable hair. It was thick and wavy. She could also tell he had risen from bed and sprinted to work, which made her envision him in bed, and why was she thinking about that?

Her silence had taken too long.