His words should have every bone in my body on high alert. But they don’t; instead, I raise an eyebrow. “You offering to be impressed?”
He grins, shameless and smug. “Peaches, I’ve been impressed. I’m just wondering when you’re going to impress me in other ways.”
I roll my eyes, but the laugh escapes before I can stop it, real and unfiltered.
Right there. That’s why this isn’t Stockholm Syndrome. Because they don’t want to control me. They want to protect me. And somehow, against all odds, I want them to. Even if I don’t really need protection from anything.
Finn’s not dangerous, no matter what they think, but if it keeps them around, I can pretend.
Hunter’s eyes follow my every step as I approach. Graham’s expression is unreadable but intense, and Carson’s right beside me. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.
Not even close.
“I’m starving,” I say, pressing my hand against my growling stomach. “I think you are responsible for my safety, and feeding me is part of keeping me safe.”
Graham scoffs a laugh, and I grin. I enjoy making him laugh. He has such tight control on his emotions that seeing a glimmer of it…caused by me…it makes my whole body tingle.
Carson nudges my arm. “You heard the girl. She’s withering away.”
Hunter snorts. “She just skated ten miles and still looks like she could knock out half the team.”
“Okay, but I could pass out from hunger,” I say dramatically, throwing my head back and pressing a hand to my forehead, pretending I’m a swooning Victorian lady.
That gets the corner of Graham’s mouth to twitch. Barely. But it’s there.
He opens the passenger side back door for me and murmurs, “Get in, drama queen. We’ll feed you before you die of starvation.”
I slip inside, heart thumping a little too hard.
Carson slides in beside me, his thigh brushing mine while pretending it’s no big deal and he doesn’t notice, but I do. I notice everything now. The way Hunter watches me through the rearview mirror. His eyes catalog my every move as though he can read my every thought. The way Graham keeps adjusting the air vents, as if controlling the air flow in the SUV somehow helps him control whatever else he’s feeling.
But I’m done pretending I don’t notice.
“So,” I say, glancing sideways at Carson. “You cooking?”
He scoffs. “Do I look like I cook?”
“You made grilled cheese and eggs,” I remind him.
“That was survival. What I do is order takeout.”
I laugh. He totally cooks and enjoys it.
Hunter glances over his shoulder. “We’re not letting her eat fries and milkshakes for dinner again.”
My jaw drops. “Blasphemy. I love fries and milkshakes.”
Carson raises a brow at him. “You’re just mad she didn’t share.”
Graham clears his throat. “There’s food at the apartment.”
I blink. “You went shopping? Did you cook?”
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
“You…something-like-that cooked for me?” My stomach flips with a happy buzz that maybe I shouldn’t feel, but I do.
His gaze flicks to mine, unreadable again. “Don’t get used to it.”
