Page 17 of Preacher

“Guy hasn’t eaten in a week,” Crowbar muttered from somewhere behind me.

“I ate yesterday,” I protested around a mouthful.

“What?”

“A… granola bar… I think.” I waved my fork vaguely. “And, you know. Caramel in a stranger’s truck. Wait. That was today.”

“Jesus Christ,” somebody said from the second grill.

“Look.” I set the fork down because my hand had started shaking again, and the last thing I wanted was to fling rib sauce across the table at Preacher’s handsome face. “I’ve had a lot going on.” Understatement of the century.

“Yeah.” Preacher’s eyes hadn’t moved off me. “We’re aware.”

The “we” landed harder than it should’ve. Like I’d missed a meeting where my entire situation had been laid out on a corkboard with red string connecting all the worst parts. Maybe I had. Maybe I’d missed it while I was unconscious and drooling on his pillow.

I picked the fork back up. “So.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s circle back to my kidnapping.”

“Eat first.” Preacher’s knee knocked gently against mine under the table. I wasn’t going to let his flirting derail me. Much.

“I am eating.” I gestured at my plate, eyebrows raised. “I can eat and ask questions.”

“You can.” Preacher took a slow pull from his bottle. “Doesn’t mean I’m answering ’em on an empty stomach. Yours, not mine.”

I pointed the stripped rib at him. “That’s manipulative.”

“That’s me wanting you to finish a meal.” His mouth tilted. “If it bothers you, file a complaint.”

“With who?”

“Me.”

I stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly calm. The string lights above us flickered on, somebody having flipped a switch I hadn’t seen, and the whole patio went soft and gold around the edges. The trees behind the fence had grown dark, the music dropping to something slower.

It should’ve been romantic.

It was, in fact, romantic, which was the part that was making my hands shake worse than the hunger had.

“Fine.” I stabbed a piece of potato with more force than necessary. “I’ll eat your barbecue. But after I develop a food baby, you’re answering questions.”

“Deal.”

“And I want a beer.” I grabbed another cornbread from the basket and dropped it onto my plate. It was moist with a hint of honey and now my new addiction. Whoever made them deserved a gold star.

“No.”

My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re running on caramels and a granola bar.” He didn’t even blink. “Beer’ll knock you sideways. Water.”

“Water’s boring,” I huffed, already starting to feel full. But I kept eating, unsure when I’d be fed like this again. Too bad I wasn’t a bear readying for hibernation. I would eat everything on my plate, and everyone else’s, in preparation for the bare cupboards at home.

“Water’s hydrating.” Preacher reached across the table, resting a hand over mine. I was eating way too fast.

“You sound like a PSA.” I chewed more slowly, aware he hadn’t pulled his hand away.

“I sound like a man who carried you inside two hours ago.” His thumb skimmed across the inside of my wrist before he drew his hand back like nothing happened.

He’d carried me. Like in his arms and placed me on his bed. I shoved coleslaw into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to respond. Wouldn’t have to think about him loosening my belt and removing my shoes like I was special in some way. I was special to no one. Not even my father who couldn’t live a clean enough life to stick around for his kids.