I turned toward the door. “What…if Geor…gia comes with…break…fast?”
“Look to me.”
I obeyed.
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded. I suddenly was.
“I have a pastry. Would you like it?”
“Thank you…sir. No.”
“And manners to boot. We are equals, however. You may call me Ewan, as you do when you write.”
I sensed my cheeks reddening again.
“And I insist,” Ewan said.
He reached into his pocket and came up with a sweet roll wrapped in waxy tissue. He struggled to pull off one corner where the icing had melted from the warmth against his hip.
“Please share with me,” he invited.
I watched his fingers as he broke off a piece of soft, yellow cake.
“May I feed it to you?” he asked.
Our eyes locked again, with mine opened wide. I swallowed hard, even before tasting the fruit and spice confection. Ou
