Page 20 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

My soup is dripping so I plunk my spoon in my mouth, barely tasting it because I’m too focused on image of Thorn in his suit and tie—or maybe without the jacket, in a rumpled button down, the sleeves rolled up and?—

“You’re not eating,” he prompts gently.

And I realize I’ve been sitting here, dissociating (okay, fine, so I’ve been thinking of Thorn, a-freaking-gain). I scoop up another bite, trying to ignore the fact that his bowl is half-empty, which likely means I’ve been doing that “dissociating” for long enough for him to eat.

“You sure can cook, little hen.”

I inhale, start choking on the bite I’ve just shoved in my mouth.

“Shit,” he mutters, rounding the table and reaching out like he’s going to pat my back.

I freeze.

So does he.

Then I start coughing again. “I’m—” Cough. “Oh—” Cough. “‘kay—” Cough.

He pulls his hand back, returns to his seat.

And I can’t help the sliver of disappointment that skates through me.

Because he didn’t touch me.

Fear of him doing exactly that. Disappointment that he didn’t.

God, why am I so messed up?

Thorn’s eyes flick toward me as I pick up my spoon again, as I take a bite and successfully chew and swallow.

Only once that’s accomplished does he speak again.

Unfortunately, it’s in regard to the last thing I want to discuss.

“What’s with the chair?”

My gaze drifts to the door, to the locks—engaged—then back to his deep green stare.

The same stare that sees far too much.

“Why did you really come here?” I say instead of answering.

“The chair, little hen,” he counters.

I feel a prickle of temper slide through my chest but I just exhale and take another bite of food before going for another tactic. “Why did you agree to adopt Violet?”

Another shrug. “I had no choice. She claimed me.”

That’s not exactly true—the no choice part. Yes, Violet had claimed him during their first meeting, crawling right up his leg and settling herself against his chest. But no, he could have stepped back, could have let Chrissy find the kitten another home.

He didn’t.

“And the gourmet salmon treats?”

Deep green eyes on mine. “She likes them.”

“She’s a cat.”

“So? She has preferences.”