“I don’t know. I prefer eating to cooking. Plus, it always tastes better when someone else cooks it. How about you? Your family is in the restaurant business, right? Maybe if private security doesn’t work out, you should open one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’d need someone on board for quality control. Someone familiar with the cuisine. A professional taster.”
“Just call me when you need someone to test your menu. I’ll be your girl.”
“Now there’s an idea I can fully get behind,” Colt said, staring deeply into Natalie’s eyes. She blushed instantly.
“I . . . I mean . . . not your girl as in—“
“Relax,” Colt interjected. “I know what you meant.” In his mind, he pictured Natalie as his girl, which made him grin from ear to ear.
Natalie noticed. “ Wow, look at that smile. Spill it. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. A really good thought popped into my head just now.”
Natalie squeezed a wedge of lemon into her water. “What thought is that?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Colt buried his nose in the menu to distract himself from the loose strands of hair framing Natalie’s face. He wanted to push them behind her ear, to lift her chin toward his mouth. He cleared his throat and ordered brisket platters for both of them.
After a while, the waitress brought their food, setting wide tin trays in front of them.
“Look at all of this,” Natalie said. “I’m going to need about five to-go boxes.”
“Just wait til you try it,” Colt said. “You’ll eat a lot more than you think.”
“I’m exercising portion control tonight.” Natalie pushed at a strip of brisket with her fork and knife and started partitioning it.
Colt tore off a piece of his bun and smeared it with butter. “Are you going to eat? Or just cut your pieces infinitely smaller?” He bit a pickle in half, wiping a bead of juice from his lip.
Natalie shrank, embarrassed. She didn’t like when a man watched her eat. Gavin always commented on her portion sizes at dinner. “Just a bit nervous. This whole Gavin thing. Never thought I’d be in this position.”
“Most domestic violence victims don’t,” Colt said. “No one plans this.”
“I’m not a victim.” Natalie shook her head defensively. “He just won’t let things go . . . ”
“What’s that?” Colt gestured at her cheek.
“What’s what?”
“That bruise.” Colt bent back over his plate. “You’ve got thicker makeup on that side of your face, but with proper light, I can still see the yellow. I’d guess it’s . . . what? Three weeks old?”
Natalie covered her cheek with her hand. “A patient got me,” she lied.
“No need to hide it from me,” Colt said. “I reviewed incident reports since last year. Not a single instance of facial contact from a patient. He hit you, didn’t he?.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s fine. I’m not here to make you relive it. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Ever.” He wiped the wet ring from his cup with his napkin before laying it back in his lap.
“It won’t,” Natalie said. “Gavin and I are through.”
“You will be when he accepts that. Look. I know it’s not my business to tell you what to do, but I think you should file a restraining order. You shouldn’t have to move because some asshole won’t leave you alone. Even if he is your ex-boyfriend.”
“A new lock will help.”
“It’s just a Band-Aid. You have to treat the wound.”
“Spoken like someone who’s been spending time at a hospital lately.”
