Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer #9) - Karen Chance Page 0,80

to do the hard work for them,” Tami told her.

Rhea frowned, and a glint of steely determination flashed in her eyes. “Then I say we fool them.”

I grinned. “Game on.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Pecans, bacon, and brie on a stroopwafel. Seriously, are you even trying?” Fred demanded.

“I didn’t think you’d know the brie,” Tami said, scowling.

“Not know brie?” The part of his face I could see looked confused. “How does a person not know brie?”

“It’s one of those weird French cheeses,” she said, reading the label on the little round box.

“It’s not weird, it’s brie.”

“Not all of us grew up in a la-di-da mansion, all right?” There was a hint of irritation in her voice.

“But brie isn’t—that’s not—no, no, no,” Fred said, waving his hands around in a way that successfully conveyed impatience, embarrassment, and something that I guess was passion, because if there was anything Fred loved, it was food. “Brie isn’t la-di-da. Brie is . . .” He searched for the right words. “It’s sunlight on a pretty girl’s face while she stomps grapes with legs purple up to the knees. It’s bells clinking around cows’ necks as milkmaids drive them home beside golden wheat fields. It’s an old man playing sad songs on a ragged accordion to a long-lost love. It’s—”

Tami smacked him on the head with a roll of paper towels. “It’s cheese.”

“You have no poetry in your soul.”

“But I got cheese on my cracker,” she said, and took a bite. “Hm. It’s okay.”

“I’m judging you right now, so hard, if you could only see my eyes.”

“Rhea’s turn,” I said, grinning. Because she’d asked to be skipped over as she finished up something a little different.

Rico opened his mouth, and she popped a bite-size piece inside, blushing a little for some reason. He chewed thoughtfully. “I call it the Elvis,” she told him, and Fred freaked out.

“What?” He pointed wildly in her general direction. “That’s cheating! What do you call it? That’s cheating!”

“I wasn’t!” Rhea looked appalled. “I wouldn’t!”

“Banana, peanut butter, and bacon,” Rico said. “On a graham cracker.”

“Oh, brilliant work,” Fred told him sourly. “I could have told you that, and I didn’t even taste it.”

“My turn,” I said, and fed Pritkin my offering. His tongue grazed my fingers for a moment, almost as if he was trying to taste them, and a little shiver went through me. I snatched my hand back, and caught Tami watching me.

I hoped I wasn’t blushing as much as Rhea.

“Strawberry, steak, and balsamic on a baguette,” Pritkin said, as if nothing had happened.

“Um, yes. Right.”

“No, no, no,” Fred said, “not right. These are s’mores. If you’re not gonna have marshmallow, then you have to have something ooey gooey that subs for it. Cheese or jam or dulce de leche—”

“Hear that? You owe me some ooey gooey,” Pritkin said, and I stared at him in disbelief.

I must be more tired than I’d thought.

“—or something, or else it’s just an appetizer. You made an appetizer.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll keep it in mind,” I said, staring at Pritkin’s blindfolded face.

I suddenly really wished I could see his eyes. And then I thought, No, no, I don’t wish that at all. I swallowed and turned around and started making up the next bite—with plenty of ooey gooey.

Three more rounds took place, with Rico finally missing cinnamon, cayenne, and dark chocolate on a potato chip, and going out to the sound of Rhea’s apologies. He laughed and kissed her hand, and told her he’d liked it. She offered to make him another.

Two more rounds and Saffy bit the dust, or rather the cheese, on an avocado, sriracha, and fontina offering that she mistook for provolone. And then, in the very next round, Vi missed the boat on a combo of crab, cream cheese, artichoke, and capers.

“What the hell’s a caper?” she demanded.

Reggie swallowed and held out a handful. “Um. These?”

She picked one up, looking at it suspiciously. “I still don’t know what the fu—funny thing that is.”

“Ooh, close one,” Marco said, grinning.

“You got me twice yesterday, fat boy,” she told him. “I’ve donated enough to the cause.”

Marco patted his belly. “This isn’t fat, it’s muscle.”

“You ate like a hundred damned marshmallows!” And then she realized what she’d said. “Son of a—”

She cut herself off, pulled a wallet out of the back of her jeans, and handed over a twenty.

“It’s fat,” she told him sourly.

“Cop a feel and find out, sweetheart.”

“You’d like that too much.”

“And I wouldn’t,” Saffy said, draping an arm around her girlfriend’s waist.

“What I’d like,”