Page 51 of Tyson
"Same," I ground out.
"Two Earl Greys. Full service. It’ll be about twenty minutes."
She shuffled off, shoes squeaking against the floor. Around us, conversations resumed in hushed tones. I caught fragments— "tattoos," "that poor girl," "young people these days."
"They hate you," Lena observed cheerfully. "Like, personally offended by your existence level hate."
"Not the first time I’ve been judged on looks."
"It's the shoulders, I think. And the jaw. Very aggressively masculine." She propped her chin on her hand, studying me. "You're like their worst nightmare. Proof that dangerous men exist outside romance novels. They’re probably all crushing on you." She waggled her eyebrows.
"Should we leave?" I didn't want to ruin her date because of a bunch of gossips.
"Are you kidding? This is the most excitement they've had in years. We're practically community service." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Besides, I like watching you try to be civilized. Very sexy."
"I’m not so hot on tea-house etiquette."
"I'll teach you. Pinky out when you sip." She demonstrated with an invisible cup. "Very important. Shows breeding."
"If I stick my pinky out, Thor will materialize and smack me round the face."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take." Her foot slid higher up my calf, and I trapped it between my legs before she could do more damage.
"Behave," I warned.
"Make me," she challenged, then squeaked when I squeezed her foot with my calves. "That's cheating!"
"It’s called tactics."
After a brief wait, the server returned with a three-tiered monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a museum. Delicate plates lined each level—microscopic sandwiches on the bottom, scones in the middle, tiny cakes and tarts on top. She set it down with a clatter that suggested she hoped it might break and give her an excuse to throw us out.
"Clotted cream—imported from Cornwall, in Britain. Jam. Lemon curd." Each item was placed with aggressive precision. "Tea will be out shortly."
I stared at the display. The cucumber sandwiches were the size of my thumb. The scones might last two bites if I was careful. A normal meal for me involved pounds of meat and potatoes, not whatever this dollhouse furniture was supposed to be.
"Is this meant to be food?" I picked up a sandwich, thing disappearing entirely in my hand.
"It's an experience." Lena popped one in her mouth whole, eyes closing in exaggerated bliss. "Mm. Cucumber and cream cheese. Fancy."
"It's a garnish. This is a garnish pretending to be food."
"Try one before you judge." She selected a sandwich and held it up to my mouth. "Open up."
"Lena—"
"Come on. Let me feed you. It'll scandalize the grandmas even more."
Against my better judgment, I opened my mouth. She placed the tiny sandwich on my tongue, fingers lingering against mylips just a second too long. The old woman at the next table actually gasped.
"Good?" Lena asked, voice gone husky.
I chewed the nothing sandwich, tasting more of her fingers than cucumber. "It's fine."
"Liar. You hate it." But she was smiling, already reaching for a scone. "These are better. More substantial. Plus you get to play with the cream."
The tea arrived in delicate china that looked like it would shatter if I breathed wrong. The cups were basically thimbles, the handles too small for my fingers.
"Pinky out," Lena reminded me, demonstrating with perfect form.
