“I made pasta.” I set his bowl on the coffee table, maybe a little harder than necessary. “For both of us. Because apparently I’m incapable of being a complete asshole even when it’s fully justified.” I settle on my side of the sectional with my own bowl. “It’s not complicated.”
He stares at his bowl for a long moment. “You didn’t have to.”
“We both need to eat.” I twirl pasta on my fork, not looking at him. “Consider it repayment for not letting me freeze to death yesterday.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The pasta is good if I say so myself. The canned tomatoes and dried herbs do their job. Not Chef Vin quality, probably, but solid.
“This is really good,” Gregory says quietly.
Don’t be nice.
Being nice makes this complicated.
“It’s just pasta,” I mutter into my bowl.
More silence. Nothing but the crackling fire and the howling wind outside. Somewhere in the house, a random rafter makes a loud CRACK as the temperatures drop.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly. “For the food storage idea. For dinner. For knowing how to handle all of this when I clearly don’t.”
The thank you catches me completely off guard.
It sounds rusty. Like the words don’t come easily. Like maybe he doesn’t say them very often.
Itoldyou not to be nice!
I risk a glance at him. He’s watching the fire with a tight jaw, his sharp profile outlined in orange light.
He looks tired.
Not physically tired, mind you, but the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones.
No.
Stop humanizing him.
But my brain is already filing away details. The way he thanked me genuinely. How he worked alongside me without complaint. His admission that he doesn’t know how to handle this.
The vulnerability and insecurity underneath all that spectacular wealth.
“You’re welcome,” I hear myself say.
And I hate that I mean it.
We finish eating in a silence that’s less hostile than before. More thoughtful. Like we’re both trying to figure out what happens next.
Because somewhere along the way, between the food storage and the unexpected thank you, something shifted.
Just a little.
Just enough to be dangerous.
8
Gregory
After dinner, we settle into our respective corners of the great room like boxers retreating to opposite sides of a ring.
She’s claimed the sectional near the fireplace, curled up with her usual man-chest book. The one she’s reading openly like it’s a badge of honor. Or defiance.
