Clint is perched against the Formica table with his legs sprawled across her chair when she returns with two oversized menus.
He opens his mouth to say something but Natasha cuts him off. “I’ve heard the Hortobágyi palacsinta here is good, so that’s what I ordered.”
“Am I supposed to—”
“They’re pancakes. With veal.” The plastic chair squeals loudly as she pushes his legs together and shifts them to one side before she sits down and leans toward him.
“They can’t be nearly as good as the pancakes at that Waffle House we went to after that gala in D.C.”
“Oh, trust me on this one.”
He nods and picks up one of the menus and starts to fiddle with the edges. He hates downtime—the feeling of uncertainty and the way his fingers ache from idleness. After he bends the corner of every page on the menu, he tosses it to the floor and starts drumming an uneven rhythm on the tabletop.
He looks up and sees that the food has arrived. It’s just as good as she said it would be, savory and sweet and fragrant.
He smiles. She smiles.
And then she says, “Budapest tomorrow.”