Page 21 of Bottles & Blades
But also something I partake in often.
Probably because I’ve spent far too much time alone, too much time in my thoughts, too much time hoping that things could be different.
“I should go,” he says softly.
I almost let him, the nerves in my belly twining around and around, climbing up my throat, trapping my words before they can emerge.
But then I hear it.
The same sound as what emanated from my stomach all of ten minutes ago.
He’s hungry too.
“You made me food,” I whisper.
He shifts again. “I hardly call slapping a few things on a plate making you food.”
“Well, I do.”
He snorts but doesn’t otherwise comment.
I nibble at my bottom lip.
Because he also doesn’t move, and eventually, that loosens my tongue. “Have you even eaten anything since that sandwich and chips this morning?”
He rocks back slightly on his heels, a flash of surprise dancing through his expression before it goes soft, and then he does the most wonderful thing—he reaches out a takes hold of a strand of my hair, rubbing it gently between thumb and forefinger. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I was going to get something now.”
I hold up my plate. “We can share.”
Warmth in his blue eyes. “Aw, buttercup, that’s for you.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I curl my other foot beneath me, snag the stack of mail and toss it on the table, then pat the cushion in front of me. “I’m good at sharing.”
He’s silent for long enough that I know,knowhe’s going to say no.
That he’s going to turn and leave.
So, it’s almost with desperation that I pat the cushion again and whisper, “Please don’t make me eat alone.”
He unsticks then, coming around to the front of the couch, sitting beside me.
My couch is tiny—more loveseat than sofa—and our legs tangle. But when I go to shift over, he places a hand on my thigh, holding me in place. That big palm scorches through the fabric of my pajamas, burning into my skin. “Here,” he says, snagging the plate from me. He sets it on the table next to the glass of wine. Then he’s tugging my feet forward, settling them in his lap.
I have my feet in a billionaire’s lap.
What alternate reality have I fallen into?
Before I can truly freak out about that, he leans forward, grabs the plate again, and tops one of the slices of bread with meat and cheese.
Then he passes it over to me.
“I—”
“You’re hungry,” he says gruffly.
“You are too.” I try to pass it back.
He pushes it toward me. “Eat, buttercup.”
