Page 54 of Cupid Calling
Ejiro felt an intense rush of emotions.
Homesickness. Relief. Elation.
“Obiora …” he whispered, voice thick. When Obiora had asked him last night what his comfort food was, he’d thought they’d just been making conversation. When he’d shyly said, “goat meat pepper soup”, Obiora’s eyes had lit up and he’d exclaimed, “Really? Same here!” Ejiro had laughed and added, “My mother thinks it’s the remedy to every ailment in the world, be it physical, emotional, or mental.” “You sure we don’t have the same mother?” Obiora had teased, making Ejiro laugh again.
Now … this.
“Look,” Obiora began, washing his hands. “I thought it might be a little upsetting for you to relive what happened between you and Sophia while you filmed your cutaways this afternoon, so I just … I don’t know, I wanted to do something to make you feel better, just in case. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
Strangely, at that last sentence, Obiora’s head ducked, his blush obvious in the helpless curve of his lips and downturned lashes, the sight of it making Ejiro feel strangely warm all over. It was the first time Ejiro had ever seen Obiora look shy.
Ejiro wanted to move closer. Hold Obiora’s hand, maybe. Give it a little squeeze. Or hug him. Just a bit. But maybe that would be weird.
“Thank you,” he said instead, voice thick. “This was really thoughtful of you, Obiora.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Obiora waved him off, still blushing. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
They dished for themselves, then headed to the dining table, automatically seating opposite each other, the table between them.
Obiora cooked his pepper soup with yam diced within its depths, thickening it a bit. Ejiro’s mother—and Ejiro after her—usually made the yam on the side, to go with a spicy tomato, onion, and chilli sauce. Or palm oil and sugar, if they were feeling fancy.
But this was perfect, because Ejiro didn’t want to think of his mother right now.
The first mouthful had him groaning and closing his eyes, savouring the flavour. It was just the right amount of hot, burning his lips with the chilli, while being intensely flavourful. A bite of yam balanced out the richness of the soup, creating a small party in his mouth.
“God,” he groaned when he was done chewing. “So good.”
“Yeah? I’m glad.”
Something in Obiora’s voice had Ejiro’s eyes snapping open, meeting the ones of the man sitting across from him.
Obiora’s pupils were wide and dark with something that filled Ejiro with an odd awareness, his lower belly turning molten with unfamiliar heat. His pulse began to race, and his breaths came fast. He quickly looked away, frowning, wondering if it was the heat from the soup that was making him feel so strange.
“Drink?” Obiora asked, his voice still in that husky timbre.
Ejiro squirmed in his seat, his pulse pounding harder. “Yes, please,” he said, fighting to hide his inner turmoil. He spooned another bit of soup and yam into his mouth to distract himself.
“Sprite, yeah?” Obiora asked, already taking a can of it out of the fridge, while taking a malt for himself.
For some reason, Obiora knowing his favourite drink—Ejiro was sure he’d never mentioned it—made him blush, a little pleased that he’d noticed.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the chilled can from him.
“You’re welcome.” Obiora smiled, flashing his dimple.
Ejiro blushed and looked away.
“How was the filming, by the way? I forgot to ask.”
“Oh.” Ejiro looked up. “Honestly? It was excruciating.”
Obiora snorted. “That bad?”
“Yes,” Ejiro deadpanned. “I hope I never have to do that ever again.”
Obiora laughed. “Aww, I’m proud of you.” The words were said teasingly, but Ejiro could tell Obiora meant it. “I know it must’ve been hard.”
Ejiro blushed. “Leave me alone, abeg,” he said to Obiora’s answering laughter, while on the inside he glowed with pleasure. In the moment, he’d just wanted it done and over with, but looking back, in the face of all those cameras, Old Ejiro would have panicked and diminished his own feelings and lied. New Ejiro had handled it as well as he could without having to sacrifice his dignity.
