Nope. She shook her head.
“Ah, hell.” He gripped the back of his neck, looking chagrined. “I thought it was liketsar. You know, but with a silentt.”
“Tsah-see-key,” she enunciated. “It’s like saying pizza without the first syllable.”
“I’ve been saying it wrong my whole life.” He hung his head and groaned. “Every time I order, I ask for extrazatzeekeesauce. I’m impressed with everyone’s ability to keep a straight face.”
“Except for me,” she teased.
Brendon grinned. “You are the exception.”
She snickered into her Gyrito, a gyro/beer-battered burrito hybrid stuffed with gyro meat, tomatoes, and feta cheese. It was so delicious she was a smidge disappointed Brendon had ordered just one. On the other hand, he’d ordered Greek food, and shewas 99 percent certain he’d done so because she’d mentioned how much she loved it the other night when they were stranded in that grimy motel. She was surprised he remembered, and even more surprised he’d actually ordered it when, according to Darcy, the group usually ordered from the Thai place right around the corner. “I’m sure plenty of people mispronounce it. Consonant clusters are a bitch. Try sayingstrc prst skrz krkfive times fast.”
“Was that—whatwasthat?” He gaped.
He’d missed a spot of tzatziki at the corner of his mouth, making him look all the more adorable in his horror over his mispronunciation and her tongue-twister. Without thinking, she leaned forward and thumbed it away, gasping when his tongue darted out against her skin.
All Brendon did was smile, like licking her finger was no big deal.
Her pulse pounded in her head. “It’s—it’s a, um... a Czech tongue-twister. It means ‘stick a finger through the throat.’”
He recoiled in horror and her head fell back against the cabinet, her stomach burning with laughter all over again. She did that a lot around him, laughing so hard she ached. Her stomach, her chest, her heart. All good aches, like stretching underused muscles.
“What it translates to doesn’t really matter,” she explained, wiping her fingers off on her napkin. “Each word has no vowels and a syllabicr,which—” She broke off, realizing he probably didn’t care about the nuances of Slavic languages. “It’s just a funny tongue-twister.”
He cocked his head, looking genuinely curious. “Syllabicr?”
She smiled, more pleased than she’d admit. “Yeah. Theris a syllabic consonant sound unto itself, so you don’t need vowels. Like theminrhythm.”
He hummed, sounding intrigued. “You never said you spoke Czech, too.”
“I don’t. In one of my linguistics courses in college that was an example of liquid consonants. Hard to forget.”
He smiled crookedly. “Well, at least I know I’m sayinggyroright.”
She buried her smile in her napkin, because hewasn’t. As withtzatziki, he’d butchered it, albeit not quite as horrifically. He wascloseby calling it a “euro.”
His smile fell, replaced with a hangdog look of dismay. “No.”
“Yep. It’syee-roh.”
He hung his head. “I can never show my face in George’s again.”
“I’m sure they hearwayworse all the time. At least you didn’t call it ajy-rohor agrrr-roh.”
He snickered. “At least.”
She eyed his order of Greek-style poutine hungrily. Her Gyrito had been satisfying but not the most filling. She plucked a fry from the basket and cradled it with her other hand, careful not to drip grease all over the counter as she brought it to her mouth. Her taste buds exploded with that one perfectly balanced bite of feta cheese, tzatziki sauce, and Kalamata olives. She groaned and plucked another fry from the paper boat, scarfing it down before going back for one more.
“You fry thief.” He laughed. “You’re going to have to pay for that, you know.”
She lowered her fry from her lips and frowned quizzically. “Hmm?”
A mischievous smile played at the edges of his mouth. “You eat my fries, you pay taxes.”
“Taxes? What kind of taxes?”
Brendon stepped in front of her, one arm on either side of her hips, his palms resting on the counter. She swallowed hard, breath coming quicker as he leaned closer, boxing her in.
