Chapter 330: Chapter 330: Tom
The menus were small, printed on thick cream paper with dark green lettering, and somehow far more elegant than a list of coffee had any right to be.
Sylvia stared at hers with the focus of a woman who had been saved by stationery.
Across from her, Thomas opened his own menu.
It looked absurd in his hands.
Not because he handled it carelessly. He did not. Thomas Lancaster appeared to be the type of man who could pick up a porcelain cup during an assassination attempt and then put it back down without chipping the rim. But his hands were large, and the menu was delicate, and Sylvia had the deeply unfair thought that everything looked smaller near him.
Tables. Chairs. Menus.
Her sense of self-preservation.
She looked down quickly, hoping that Thomas didn’t notice.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"That was not nothing."
"It was furniture-related."
His mouth twitched. "The chair is fine."
"The chair is enduring you with patriotic loyalty."
"I will thank it later."
Sylvia pressed her lips together, but the laugh still escaped.
Outside, Florian turned another page of his upside-down book with the grim dignity of a man suffering for the stability of the realm.
Sylvia glanced at him. "He is still doing it."
"He is committed."
"That explains a lot."
Thomas’s eyes warmed. "Does it?"
"Yes. He clearly learned endurance from you and subtlety from no one."
The corner of Thomas’s mouth lifted.
Sylvia’s heart did something stupid.
She looked down at the menu again. The menu was safe. The menu did not have broad shoulders, a too-soft gaze, or a second-in-command being publicly humiliated in a bookstore for the sake of a coffee date.
"What do you usually drink?" Thomas asked.
"Coffee."
"That is not an answer."
"It is if you are not difficult."
"I am trying not to be difficult."
"You reserved a café."
"That was practical."
"You placed Florian in a bookstore."
"That was unfortunate."
"For Florian."
"Yes."
Sylvia smiled despite herself.
Thomas watched her for half a second too long, then lowered his gaze to the menu as if he had been caught doing something improper.
That made Sylvia feel worse.
No.
Better.
No.
It made her feel something, and that was the problem.
"I usually drink latte," she said. "Cappuccino if I want to look like a person with discipline. Never black coffee, because I enjoy life."
Thomas looked up. "You think I do not enjoy life?"
"I think you enjoy duty."
"That is not the same?"
"No, Thomas, it is not."
"Tom," he said.
Sylvia froze.
The word had been quiet. Simple. Almost casual.
It was not casual.
Nothing about it was casual.
Thomas Lancaster was formal. Thomas Lancaster was a name people said with straight backs and careful voices. Thomas Lancaster gave orders, arranged security, and made furniture reconsider its career choices.
Tom sounded like a man who sat across from her in an empty café and wanted her to know him without the armor.
Sylvia stared at him.
"What?"
His gaze held hers, steady but softer now. "Not Thomas. Not here. Tom is fine."
Fine.
Fine, he said, as if he had not just placed something warm and dangerous between them.
Sylvia opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Thomas’s brow moved faintly. "Was that wrong?"
"No," she said too quickly.
His eyes warmed.
Her face heated.
"No," she repeated, with more dignity and less success. "It was just unexpected."
"You do not have to."
"That makes it worse."
"I apologize."
"You should. You just offered a domestic name before coffee."
Thomas blinked.
Then, very quietly, he laughed.
Sylvia gripped the menu.
This was terrible.
This was absolutely terrible.
"Domestic?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I was unaware."
"Men rarely know when they become dangerous."
His eyes settled on her face. "Am I dangerous?"
Bad question. Catastrophic question.
Sylvia should have made a joke.
She did not.
"Yes," she said. "But not the way you think."
Thomas went still.
She looked down at the menu, because apparently she could say dangerous things only if she was not looking at him.
"You pay attention," she said. "That is dangerous."
His voice lowered. "Is it?"
"Yes. Tall men are common. Important men are boring. Alphas with too much confidence are everywhere." Sylvia glanced up. "But you notice things. Small things. Then you remember them."
His gaze flicked, very briefly, to the white flowers on the table.
Sylvia followed the look.
Her chest tightened.
"You knew?" she asked.
"I guessed."
"How?"
"At the wedding preparations, when Dean’s room was arranged, everyone suggested roses. You chose white flowers without scent."
Sylvia stared at him.
"You remembered that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Thomas looked at her for a long moment, as if the answer should have been obvious, but he was careful enough not to say it that way.
"Because you chose it," he said.
Oh. No.
Absolutely not.
Sylvia looked back at the menu so fast the paper bent in her hands.
"That is exactly what I meant," she muttered. "Dangerous."
Tom’s mouth softened around the name she had not said aloud yet but had already begun thinking.
"I was trying to ask about you," he said.
"That was asking?"
"I am not very good at this."
"At interrogation?"
"At dates."
Sylvia looked up.
He seemed perfectly serious.
That was unfair.
"You are Thomas Lancaster."
"Tom."
Her stomach did a small, humiliating turn.
"Tom," she corrected, and hated the way his expression softened. "You command people. You negotiate with nobles. You probably frighten entire rooms by entering them."
"Rooms are simpler than you."
Sylvia’s brain stopped.
Outside, Florian turned another page.
Thank the gods for Florian.
"You cannot just say things like that," she whispered.
"I was being honest."
"That continues to be the central issue."
Tom leaned back slightly, and the chair gave another quiet complaint. "Then tell me something I cannot observe."
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "That was smooth."
"I practiced nothing."
"That makes it worse."
A small smile touched his mouth.
Sylvia looked at the menu again, but now the words blurred slightly.
Something he could not observe.
She could give him something harmless. Her favorite pastry. Her dislike of roses. The fact that she liked rainy markets because everyone became too busy being miserable to posture properly.
Instead, because this date had apparently destroyed her survival instincts, she said, "I get nervous before entering rooms."
Tom did not speak.
Sylvia swallowed.
"Not afraid, exactly. I just calculate too much. Who is there. Who is watching. Who might be cruel if bored. Who might remember something small and use it later." She glanced toward the window. "Rina gets angry. It looks easier."
"It may not be."
"I know. But she walks into a room like the room should adjust to her. I walk in and look for the safest angle."
Tom’s voice was gentle. "And today?"
Sylvia looked at him.
"I almost left before opening the door," she admitted.
His jaw tightened.
"Not because of you," she said quickly, then grimaced. "All right. A little because of you."
"I see."
"No, you don’t. You opened the door looking like that."
His brow lifted faintly.
Sylvia pointed at him. "Do not pretend you don’t know. You chose the coat."
Tom looked down at himself.
Sylvia felt absurdly victorious. "Exactly. Guilty."
"It is a normal coat."
"It is not normal on you."
His ears turned faintly red.
Oh. Oh, that was adorable.
Sylvia smiled slowly. "Tom."
He looked at her.
The name worked.
Not dramatically, because he was still Thomas Lancaster under it all, but something in him softened each time she said it, and Sylvia felt both delighted and terrified by how gentle that power was.
"You are embarrassed," she said.
"A little," he admitted.
The employee behind the counter cleared her throat softly.
Both of them turned.
She held up her notepad.
Sylvia looked at the empty table.
They had been sitting there, staring at menus and emotionally damaging each other, and they had not even ordered.
"No coffee yet," Sylvia whispered.
Tom glanced at the menu, then at her.
"A tactical failure," he said gravely.
Sylvia covered her face with the menu and laughed.
Tom ordered black coffee for himself, because he remained suspicious, and a latte for Sylvia, because apparently he had listened to every foolish thing she had said. Then he added the chestnut cream cake without making her say it aloud.
"One slice or two?" the employee asked.
"One," Sylvia said.
"Two," Tom said at the same time.
Sylvia slowly turned her head.
Tom met her gaze with the calm bravery of a man choosing execution.
"You should not have to share if you like it," he said.
Sylvia stared at him.
Then, very softly, very dangerously, she said, "Tom."
His expression warmed again.
Absolutely unfair.
Sylvia pointed at him. "Do not start buying extra cake because I looked emotionally vulnerable near dessert."
"I have not started."
"You ordered two slices."
"That is one incident."
"One incident is how habits begin."
"I will remain vigilant."
Sylvia laughed again, helplessly this time.
Outside, Florian continued reading upside down.
Inside, coffee finally began to brew, and Sylvia realized with horror that she had not relaxed because the date was normal.
She had relaxed because Tom was not.
He was too tall, too careful, too sincere, and entirely too pleased every time she forgot to be afraid.
The coffee machine hissed behind the counter.
Tom looked at it, then back at her.
"Coffee is coming," he said.
"Good," Sylvia replied, gathering the torn remains of her dignity. "I need help."
Tom smiled.
This time, he did not hide it.
"So do I."
