Nothing comes out.
Because he's right, and I don't have an excuse for that one, and he knows it. The truth is that my stomach has been a tight knot of anxiety since I woke up in that chapel, and food has been the last thing on my mind.
But how does he know that? Why is a mafia king tracking the eating habits of his captive bride-to-be?
"Fine." I try to say it with dignity, try to make it sound like a choice rather than a surrender. "I'll eat. But only because—"
I don't finish the sentence. What's the point? We both know I'm going to do what he wants. We both know I already am.
Something changes at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. That almost-smile that I'm learning to recognize, the one that makes me feel like I've surprised him in a way that pleases him.
I look away before I can examine why that pleases me too.
HE LEADS ME TO A SMALLdining room I haven't seen before, flooded with natural light from a bay window that overlooks the gardens. A vase of white roses sits at the center of the table,and there's only one place setting laid out on the crisp white tablecloth.
One setting. He's not staying.
I don't know why that thought brings something that feels almost like disappointment. That's ridiculous. I should be relieved.
I am relieved.
Definitely. Absolutely. One hundred percent relieved.
Devyn pulls out the chair and looks at me expectantly.
"You're kidding."
The look he gives me suggests he has never kidded about anything in his entire life. That the very concept of kidding is beneath him, an inefficiency he eliminated from his existence years ago.
I sit down. With dignity. Making it very clear through my posture that this is my choice and I am choosing it freely.
He pushes my chair in, and his hands brush my shoulders as he does. Just for a second, just the barest whisper of contact through the fabric of my blouse.
My breath catches.
Then he steps back, and I'm left staring at the empty place setting and trying to remember how breathing works.
A staff member appears with a covered plate, and when they lift the silver dome I'm expecting something elaborate. Foie gras, maybe. Something architectural.
Instead, it's a grilled cheese sandwich.
Golden brown, perfectly toasted, with tomato soup on the side. The kind of meal you eat when you're sick, or sad, or overwhelmed. The meal I used to make for myself in my tiny Providence apartment after particularly brutal days at work.
I stare at it.
"How did you—"
I look up, but Devyn is already at the door, one hand on the frame, his back to me.
"Eat," he says. "Then you can continue your investigation."
And then he's gone.
I sit there for a long moment, turning the question over in my mind. How did he know? Why did he care?
Then I pick up the sandwich and take a bite.
Oh.
