suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and
cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice
stops me. “We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the
first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I
wasn’t even starving then.”
“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say
regretfully. But I don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a
roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I
make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even sent
us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we
finish, I stare longingly at the dish. “I want more.”
“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down,
then we get another serving,” Peeta says.
“Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”
“Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were
saying just before the food arrived? Something about me . . .
no competition . . . best thing that ever happened to you . . .”
“I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim
in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.
“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Scoot
over, I’m freezing.”
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