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"There are a myriad of reasons why I love this city," Neal declared.
"By any chance, would that number also be the count of art museums and galleries?" Peter said archly.
"Stop that." With a gentle smack to Peter, El maneuvered around him to set the bowl of stew down in front of Neal.
"No cilantro," El whispered. She winked, but it was moot. Because Neal finally admitted he couldn't take the taste of it whenever she made her stew. He couldn't bear to refuse it, though. It's Elizabeth Burke's Sunday stew.
Peter's Caffrey radar pinged the one time Neal failed to suppress a grimace. Peter figured it out, harangued Neal to do a full allergy panel—and neglected to inform Neal it involved a lot of needles—and attached the report to his file. Then Peter made everyone sit down to one of Moz's lectures on how everything can kill you and how to use an EpiPen before that happens. It included a mortifying amount of PowerPoint slides.
"Considering I chased you through a lot of places, New York must have really impressed you," Peter remarked as he refilled Neal's glass. Water, not wine, because of the cold Neal thought he hid from Peter all week.
Neal shrugged. He sipped his water.
"Ignore him, Neal." El rolled her eyes. She smiled, her gaze fixed on Neal as he took his first bite. She visibly relaxed when Neal hummed his approval.
"So, lots of reasons, huh?" El prodded.
Something warm, an amorphous feeling he has yet to identify, bloomed in his chest as El and Peter joined him at the dining table.
"Well, at least two reasons," Neal demurred.