His grin widens, he steps impossibly closer to me, voice dipping just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Weren’t you ever taught to say thank you when someone brings you hot food?”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to lean back even though he’s well within the too close zone now. The smell of the pollo guisado is doing things to me. So is the smell of him—soap and something warm and musky that shouldn’t be allowed near me when I’m starving and vulnerable.
“I was also taught not to talk to strange men hovering in parking lots.”
“Strange?” he echoes, mock offended.
“Uninvited.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Pretty sure bringing lunch gets me a pass.”
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, he lifts the spoon and places a bite of the pollo guisado right into my mouth.
Oh, fuck. That’s good.
My head tips back, eyes rolling slightly, and I groan at the heavenly taste.
I hear him laugh—low, pleased, way too damn satisfied.
“Didn’t think that’s what I had to do to get you to make that sound,” he says, voice dipped in smugness.
My eyes snap open. I chew slowly. Then I glare at him. “You’re lucky that was incredible. You’re also lucky I don’t stab you with this fork.”
“For you,” he says, that damn grin returning, “I’d risk it.”
I huff, grabbing the container from his hands, and take a step back. “Did you want to sit here eating this meal with me?”
His brows lift, just slightly. “Do you want me to?” he asks, careful now.
I open my mouth. Close it. Because no would be a lie. But yes feels like he’s winning.
Instead, I shrug. “It’s a good meal. Would be rude to let you walk away without tasting how great it is.”
He smirks, just a little. “So we agree—I’m great.”
“I said the food was great.”
“Right. And I made the food, which means I am great.”
“Just eat before I change my mind.”
He scoops a spoonful into his mouth, chews, and says, “You’re right. This is good.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. We lean against the truck, shoulder to shoulder, and for the next twenty minutes eat our lunch in a comfortable quiet. And it’s nice.
Chapter Eleven
ANALYSE
One new text from The Council of Chaos.
Anna
Lyse, get your ass up. We’re picking pumpkins!
It’s been a few days since I’ve seen the girls in person, and apparently, that’s a few days too long. I’m not surprised. The Council of Chaos runs on group selfies, seasonal snacks, a shit-ton of wine, and wildly unsolicited check-ins.
I text back.
