the reality of her lack of grocery shopping the last week.
Her shoulders sagged. The refrigerator was empty but for a quart of milk, four bottles of beer, an apple, a stick of butter, something that looked like leftover lasagna from Tony's, and three white cardboard takeout containers from Ming's.
"Gah, what a bonehead," she mumbled. Who bought flowers and no food? But then, she hadn't been expecting any guests.
"We'll have Chinese food." Microwaved, leftover Chinese food.
Welcome to Earth, bud.
She carried the containers to the microwave. "Beef chow fun and Kung Po chicken," she called. "And rice. Watch out for dried red peppers. But Vash like spicy food, right? Or at least on Sienna they do. Some of the dishes there about burned a hole in my tongue."
She found her serving spoons and matching bowls, then her best dishes. Cloth napkins, too, which was as formal as she ever got. Crisscrossing several times to the cafe table with its four mismatched antique chairs, she made two place settings.
The microwave beeped. She reached in, stirred the food. Then she sagged against the island to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel. Blowing her hair out of her eyes, she found Ché watching her with a mix of amusement and amazement. "What?" she demanded.
"I have never seen anyone who can do so much at once."
He appeared so fascinated that it made her blush.
Her hands twisted the dishtowel. She realized what she was doing, threw the towel on the counter, and smoothed her dress, just to have something to do with her empty hands. Rarely was she awkward. More rarely still was she awkward around men.
Men like Ché Vedla are out of your area of expertise, though. Yeah? Maybe. But hell would freeze before she'd admit that he flustered her.
"I'm multi-tasking," she explained. Let him figure that one out.
"Multi-tasking." He sounded out the phrase. "Doing many things at once. Why, are the cooks not on duty? The serving staff?"
She almost collided with the island in the center of the kitchen. "Serving staff?" Then she saw the mischief lighting up his gaze.
He was teasing her. She narrowed her eyes. "God, you are a beast."
"Perhaps." He smiled lazily.
Her stomach did a little flip-flop.
She heard cheers coming from the television. To her relief, the commotion drew Che's attention. By the time she returned to the living room, a cold bottle of Red Rocket Ale in each hand, the soccer match had engrossed him. "Here you go," she sang out.
Immediately he pushed himself off the couch. He stood, dipping his head in a gesture of respect.
She sighed silently. "Don't do that."
"You are a woman, and thus deserving of such respect, as directed in the warrior's code."
More Vash mumbo jumbo. He'd recited it from memory. "Ché." She sighed. "I appreciate a man with manners, but if you're going to jump to attention every time I show up in my own house, I'll go nuts. You're on Earth now. You're not in the palace, not in the spotlight. You don't have to act the way they want you to. Sit down and relax. I command you."
He complied, but with reluctance, taking the beer she offered. "I will seek to adapt to the rules of your culture, Ilana."
"The rule in my house is that there are no rules."
Exhaling, he smiled up at her and loosened his tie. Then he unbuttoned his collar, revealing a nice throat. Vash men didn't have hair on their chests, or much body hair, period, other than the expected places. Just smooth, firm, bronzed skin. Six feet, three inches of firm bronzed skin.
She pretended she didn't know that.
"So. Who's playing?" she asked.
"Sweden. And Latvia." His accent made the names of the countries sound truly exotic. "The score is"— he rotated his hand— "together."
She smiled. "Tied?"
"Yes. Tied."
An exciting game on TV, and yet he didn't try to peer around her to watch. Wow. A point for the prince, she thought.
She sat on the opposite end of the couch. She wasn't sure if it was to keep her hormones from self-combusting, or out of
Her shoulders sagged. The refrigerator was empty but for a quart of milk, four bottles of beer, an apple, a stick of butter, something that looked like leftover lasagna from Tony's, and three white cardboard takeout containers from Ming's.
"Gah, what a bonehead," she mumbled. Who bought flowers and no food? But then, she hadn't been expecting any guests.
"We'll have Chinese food." Microwaved, leftover Chinese food.
Welcome to Earth, bud.
She carried the containers to the microwave. "Beef chow fun and Kung Po chicken," she called. "And rice. Watch out for dried red peppers. But Vash like spicy food, right? Or at least on Sienna they do. Some of the dishes there about burned a hole in my tongue."
She found her serving spoons and matching bowls, then her best dishes. Cloth napkins, too, which was as formal as she ever got. Crisscrossing several times to the cafe table with its four mismatched antique chairs, she made two place settings.
The microwave beeped. She reached in, stirred the food. Then she sagged against the island to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel. Blowing her hair out of her eyes, she found Ché watching her with a mix of amusement and amazement. "What?" she demanded.
"I have never seen anyone who can do so much at once."
He appeared so fascinated that it made her blush.
Her hands twisted the dishtowel. She realized what she was doing, threw the towel on the counter, and smoothed her dress, just to have something to do with her empty hands. Rarely was she awkward. More rarely still was she awkward around men.
Men like Ché Vedla are out of your area of expertise, though. Yeah? Maybe. But hell would freeze before she'd admit that he flustered her.
"I'm multi-tasking," she explained. Let him figure that one out.
"Multi-tasking." He sounded out the phrase. "Doing many things at once. Why, are the cooks not on duty? The serving staff?"
She almost collided with the island in the center of the kitchen. "Serving staff?" Then she saw the mischief lighting up his gaze.
He was teasing her. She narrowed her eyes. "God, you are a beast."
"Perhaps." He smiled lazily.
Her stomach did a little flip-flop.
She heard cheers coming from the television. To her relief, the commotion drew Che's attention. By the time she returned to the living room, a cold bottle of Red Rocket Ale in each hand, the soccer match had engrossed him. "Here you go," she sang out.
Immediately he pushed himself off the couch. He stood, dipping his head in a gesture of respect.
She sighed silently. "Don't do that."
"You are a woman, and thus deserving of such respect, as directed in the warrior's code."
More Vash mumbo jumbo. He'd recited it from memory. "Ché." She sighed. "I appreciate a man with manners, but if you're going to jump to attention every time I show up in my own house, I'll go nuts. You're on Earth now. You're not in the palace, not in the spotlight. You don't have to act the way they want you to. Sit down and relax. I command you."
He complied, but with reluctance, taking the beer she offered. "I will seek to adapt to the rules of your culture, Ilana."
"The rule in my house is that there are no rules."
Exhaling, he smiled up at her and loosened his tie. Then he unbuttoned his collar, revealing a nice throat. Vash men didn't have hair on their chests, or much body hair, period, other than the expected places. Just smooth, firm, bronzed skin. Six feet, three inches of firm bronzed skin.
She pretended she didn't know that.
"So. Who's playing?" she asked.
"Sweden. And Latvia." His accent made the names of the countries sound truly exotic. "The score is"— he rotated his hand— "together."
She smiled. "Tied?"
"Yes. Tied."
An exciting game on TV, and yet he didn't try to peer around her to watch. Wow. A point for the prince, she thought.
She sat on the opposite end of the couch. She wasn't sure if it was to keep her hormones from self-combusting, or out of
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