She didn’t accept and certainly didn’t need the support, having opted for a more sensible pair of shoes. “This isn’t a date.”
“I would never presume.” James pulled his elbow back to his side with a haughty expression belied by the glint in his eye. “I was merely being a gentleman.”
She adjusted her green hat with the white flowers, a careful adornment to the pale yellow shirtdress she wore. “I would be fine with tea as well, if you prefer.”
He paused at the street as a trolly whooshed by, clanging its bells. “We’re in Portugal, we’ll do bica.”
“Technically, tea is very Portuguese,” Ava replied.
“Ah, yes, because of Princess Catherine of Braganza wedding King Charles II in the seventeenth century?” James strode onward as the traffic created a gap.
She studied him curiously. “Yes, actually.”
“Don’t be so surprised.” He led them around a corner. “I know British history as well as any lad. And while it is kind of you to consider my tastes, I do quite well with a stiff cup of coffee in the morning. I’ll also wager you’ve not had the chance to try the Portuguese sort yet.”
Of course, he was right.
Mirrors and polished wood adorned the walls of the café they entered, and the counter sported a massive metal contraption that hissed and gurgled. A waiter approached as they slid into the chairs at a small table for two near the open entrance. The April morning was crisp with a light breeze that ruffled Ava’s skirt against her knees. James spoke to the man in perfect Portuguese with a speed that left her unable to grasp even a single word from her very limited vocabulary.
It was not often she found herself in a position where she did not speak the language.
“How long did it take you to learn Portuguese?” she asked, envy as green as her felt hat seeping into her tone.
“You’ll pick it up quickly enough.” He crossed his left ankle over his right knee and looked out at the city slowly coming to life on the street. “I should apologize for how we met. I meant my chiding to be in jest.”
“It didn’t come out as one.”
He gave a warm chuckle. “Clearly.”
The waiter brought out a small plate of pastries with browned custard at their tops and two porcelain cups no taller than Ava’s pinky.
“Stiff” was exactly the right choice of word for bica, which packed the entire force of a cup of coffee in a tiny mug with a bit of tan foam frothing at the top. Apparently, James required the edge taken off his drink as he added a helping of sugar so generous that it would make any ration-following American cringe.
Ava was far more impressed by the pastéis de nata. The delicate pastry on the bottom cradled the custard center, the tops toasted golden.
“Do you know the history of these?” James indicated the food.
Ava lifted one from the plate, surprised at the heft of such a small treat. “Monks used the egg whites to starch their laundry and had yolks aplenty left, which is perfect for custard. They were the first ones to bake pastéis de nata and they’ve been a part of Portugal ever since.”
“Bravo.” James lifted one and tapped his to hers in mock cheers before taking a bite.
The custard was warm and thick, the crust crisp and the entire concoction was perfectly sweet and delicious.
“If you like this, you’ll have to try the baked goods the refugees sell.” He laid some escudos on the table.
Ava pulled up her purse, but he shook his head. “Today is on the Crown. Has your research led you to the Livraria yet?”
“I don’t know where anything is, but I’m always game for a book store.” She stood from her seat and swung her bag over her shoulder, ready to embark on the guided trip through Lisbon.