Is it pathetic how much I know about this man’s habits? Yes.
Did I work late in the bar or late at the arena to feed that sick pit inside me that was desperate for any and all knowledge of this man? Also…yes.
And does any of that knowledge I’ve gained over the last years—but especially over the last months—help me make sense of what the fuck is going on here?
Nope. Absolutely fuckingnot.
We’ve eaten together enough that he knows my favorite places, my favorite foodsfromthose places, but this isn’t about work.
I don’t know what it’s about. A lie, but one I’m clinging to because?—
We’ll see about fixing that.
His voice from last night rolls through me, and even though it was soft and gentle, it struck even deeper than the innuendo that’s cast me mute in this moment.
Which is why I clamp my mouth shut, brush by him to yank open the cabinet door, and reach in to grab some plates and bowls.
He’s here.
He’s male, which means he’s stubborn.
I need to ride this out before he’ll leave—and Iknowhe’ll leave.
The plus is that I get my favorite food while I’m stuck on this ride I never wanted to get on in the first place?—
Liar.
I close my eyes for a heartbeat, shove that thought down, tucking it right next to the pulsing, throbbing need I’ve buried for too long. It’s covered with heavy sheets of steel—the reminders that this can’t be, that he’s not capable of giving me what I need, what I want…even if itcouldbe.
And the heaviest sheet of all is that a man like Damon would never, fuckingneverwant to givemethat.
The clangs of those thick sheets of metal slamming home have my lids peeling back.
Suitably shored up, defenses securely in place, I snag two plates, two bowls, and bring them over to the bags of Dragon Delight.
Then I grab silverware, forks and spoons for us, a ladle for the soup, big spoons I use specifically to serve up heaping portions of Dragon Delight—because there’s no skimping when it comes to good food and there’s definitely no skimping when it comes to wonton soup and lo mein and fried rice with chunks of perfectly sweet pork in it.
Only, I no sooner set that silverware down before Damon is moving close again. Near enough I can feel the heat from his body, but not so close that he’s touching me. That buried longing in me pulses, desperate for his touch, threatening to slip free of the steel shielding. Especially when he says, “You really going to let me get away with saying that shit, Red?”
My heart starts beating faster, but I just lift my chin and glare at him. “You’re here for reasons only known to you, and you’re a stubborn fuck, so I know I don’t have any hope of getting you to leave before you’ve accomplished what you came here to accomplish?—”
His mouth quirks.
But I keep talking.
“In the meantime,” I mutter, opening the container of soup and ladling some into my bowl—and doing it knowing I’m being selfish by taking the majority of the wontons, “I’m going to eat my food, drink my wine, and deal with it until you get it in your head to leave again.”
Silence.
For long enough that I can’t take it.
I look up from the mound of rice I’ve scooped onto my plate in the meantime.
He’s studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s never encountered before.
Then he’s solving it and by doing so, he sends terror through me.
Because what Hiller did to me was traumatic. It haunted my nightmares and fucked up my life for months.
