He had to chuckle at the question. He’d made the opening so obvious that he’d assumed she’d think twice before jumping into the topic, but since she’d asked… He shrugged and told her, “Think about cashing that raincheck sometime, and maybe you’ll find out.”
There was the sound of Ofelia choking on her glass of water.
She had enough presence and control to not literally spit it out across the table, but the liquid lodged in her throat and she had to cough, trying to regain her composure. Her own fault, really, for waltzing right into that trap – or for mentioning the idea of a raincheck at all. (Work, gil, King, country, and information all ranked higher on her own mental list. So could she really be faulted for being caught off-guard?)
When Ofelia recovered enough to level a stare at her dinner companion, she tried to glower but failed.
“I deserved that,” she said, shoving the glass aside.
He hadn’t had such a good laugh in awhile, and likely never in front of her. He rarely relaxed enough for it, but he found himself leaning back in his seat, giving in to the brief burst of amusement at her expense. It took him a few moments to regain his composure before he could respond: “Can’t deny it. You literally walked right into that. Thought you had more sense, but apparently not.” He picked up his fork to gesture to her plate. “Try not to choke on your dinner. You’re supposed to be trying to kill me, remember, not the other way around. Keep up.”
“Am I really? My memory must be slipping. Thank you for reminding.” There were no genteel napkins at this sort of establishment, no way to primly dab her mouth, so instead Fee opted for matching her surroundings: she just wiped herself off with the sleeve of her sweater, forsaking propriety for the moment.
The sight of Cian Wilde unravelled and laughing to this extent – not a smirk, not a dry chuckle – was alien enough that it gave her pause. And it made a smile of her own flicker across her face, a ghost of an expression.
(Faram’s sake, she was having fun.)
She typically had more sense, but.
“What were you doing in the theatre district, anyhow?” Ofelia changed the subject like a hovertaxi swerving, banking suddenly to the left as she jabbed at her food. “This is my stomping ground, Wilde, I’ll have you know.”
He took his time chewing and swallowing a mouthful of the roast meat they had brought him -- drowned in gravy, but not terrible -- before he responded. “Just passing through.” Dinner and mutual amusement was one thing, but his business with the guildmaster (however much he didn’t want anything to do with it) was private, even if he thought she could probably help him with it, if he found the right way to ask.
Better not. Some lines could be blurred, maybe, but not that one.
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to start encroaching on your territory. I’ve got enough on my plate, believe me.” He gave the contents of his literal plate a slightly suspicious look, added, “Even if I have no damn clue what it is.”
“It’s probably not cooked dire rat. But if it was: at least you can consider your dinner locally sourced, captured right here in Emillion.” Trying not to betray her good mood, Ofelia busied herself with her own plate: a bowl of hot and spicy broth containing what was hopefully chicken. Focusing on the act of eating also kept her mind firmly averted from the detour their conversation had taken earlier.
“I’ll join for the game,” she finally decided. “And if you decide someone ought to be cleaned out, to set an example. Then we can team up.”
“Never did like the idea of buying foreign.” His smirk held equal parts amusement and anticipation as he told her, “You’ve got yourself a deal. Pleasure doing business with you.” Funny thing – it really was.