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“Thank you,” I say.
Savage spears me with that dark-eyed gaze and holds it. “Is it good? Are you happy?”
“Y-Yeah.”
The tension bleeds out of his shoulders as he returns to his meal.
What the hell is going on?
Twelve
SAVAGE
She likes the food.
I made food that Hannah likes, and I’m the fool who can’t stop smiling as I lay out a cushion and blanket on the sofa. It doesn’t matter that she likes the damn food, or that I went out and bought the ingredients for chicken piccata before she arrived. I’m setting myself up for fucking disappointment here.
Hannah knocks on the doorjamb of the living room, and I slam that scowl back into place before I turn around.
She’s wearing another pair of PJs which makes it difficult to concentrate. Strappy, baby blue silk top, matching shorts. Her hair falls in dark waves around her shoulders and bright blue eyes stare at me, full of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay with me taking your bed?” she asks. “I could sleep on the sofa. It’s not a problem.”
“No.”
Hannah hesitates. “That must be your favorite word.”
“First word I ever said.”
She snorts a laugh then blocks her mouth and nose with a hand. I want to tug it away and make her giggle again. “Okay, if you’re sure,” she says, rubbing her hands over her arms.
“Do you want me to turn up the heat?” I ask.
“No, I’m fine. I’m sure I’ll be good once I’m in your bed.” Her eyes go wide. “The bed. The bed that’s in your room, that I’m going to be spending the night in. Is what I mean.”
I love when she does that, gets all flustered.
“I can turn it up.”
“No, no. No. It’s all good.”
I frown at her.
She takes a step back. “Uh, I just wanted to say thank you for dinner. It was really tasty and super nice of you. It meant a—a regular amount to me.” Hannah flashes me a quick smile, and I want to keep it. I want to see it every day.
You are a fucking delusional mess.
“Goodnight,” she says.
“Goodnight.”
Hannah pats the doorjamb once, then waves and disappears from view. The door to my bedroom clicks shut in the hall, and I force myself to exhale and not punch something.
It’s a bad habit I have, breaking things when I can’t have what I want. No, that’s not true. I’m not two-years-old. I only break things when I can’t have Hannah or when she’s under threat.
I sit down on the sofa, rest my forearms on my knees and stare at my reflection on the black TV screen. I shake my head at myself. I’ve got to turn up the heat. Hannah might not want me to, but I’ve got to.
“Go to bed, Carter.” I’m about to get up when the lights shut off.
Fuck. The storm has kicked the power, which means things are going to get a lot colder than they already were. Lightning flashes outside.
