“You know, you’re allowed to sit at the table with me,” I snapped. “I’m not diseased.”
A long, agonizing beat of silence passed. His narrowed gaze wasn’t angry, or even his usual grumpy—it was almost pensive.
He pushed off the counter, straightening his spine. He set his plate on the table across from me, pulled out the chair, and sat. We stared at each other—me, glaring; him, assessing.
He was always assessing. Those eyes scanned my face as if they were searching for something. Like there was a piece missing he couldn’t quite place.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to sit with you,” he finally said.
I blinked at him. “Why wouldn’t I want you to sit with me?”
He speared a piece of tortellini with his fork and popped it in his mouth. He chewed, as if he knew making me wait would annoy me.
“I’m not trying to force myself on you by being here,” he finally said after swallowing. “I’m not trying to disrupt your life.”
My frown sharpened. “What does that have to do with eating dinner with me?”
“I didn’t know if we were on dinner-eating terms.”
“Do you want to be on dinner-eating terms?” I asked.
His eyes held mine for a beat. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
One thing I always had appreciated about Fox was that he was honest, but that stung.
I straightened my shoulders, pretending it didn’t affect me. “Well, I’m coming to Sunday dinner. One way or another, we’ll probably have to figure it out.”
With that, I forced myself to take a bite. It was as delicious as it had smelled. I stifled a moan. It had been a long time since I’d had food this good. I wasn’t much of a cook, and takeout from a restaurant wasn’t the same.
I inhaled three more bites before Fox spoke again.
“I’m surprised you accepted her invitation.”
I swallowed an extra-large bite of garlic bread, wincing as it scraped my throat. “Your mother is practically impossible to say no to.”
A tiny smile curled the corner of his lip. He opened his mouth, but my phone rang before he could say anything. I grabbed it from the back pocket of my jeans, brows bunching at a number I didn’t recognize. As a journalist, I often got calls from numbers I didn’t know. I never knew whether someone was contacting me with important information.
I answered the call. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I tried again.
I waited, on the verge of hanging up when someone finally answered.
“Hey, Skye.”
The voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I flinched. I knew that voice. I recognized it from my nightmares.
There was a rasp to it now, a weight of age—but it was undeniably his.
“What?” He sounded amused. “You’re not gonna say hello to your father?”
I clutched my phone so tight my hand shook. The cut on my palm flared with pain as it started to tear open.
“What do you want?” I choked out.
The scrape of a chair startled me. I looked up in a panic—meeting Fox’s eyes. He was already on his feet, concern etched into his face.
