I sat. Because apparently, when Dalton King gave orders in that rough voice, my body decided to obey before my brain could object.
He made two sandwiches. Efficient. Economical. No wasted motion.
I tried not to watch the flex of his forearms as he worked. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and I could see the corded muscle beneath tanned skin. The scatter of dark hair. A thin white scar running along the inside of his left wrist.
I wondered what he’d be like in bed. Efficient there too? Or would all that control finally crack? Would those big hands be gentle or rough? Would he—
Wow, Amber. Get a grip.
I was having inappropriate thoughts about a man who’d basically accused me of being a con artist that morning. A man who’d circled Valentine’s Day on his calendar like it was a deathsentence. A man who clearly wanted nothing to do with women in general and me specifically.
A man who was making me lunch.
That thought caught me off guard. When was the last time a man had done something like this for me? Something simple and thoughtful and completely unprompted?
Never. The answer was never.
My ex had taken me to restaurants, sure. But cook for me? Take care of me when I was working too hard?
No. That required actually caring.
And Dalton King didn’t care. He couldn’t. He’d made that perfectly clear.
So why was he making me a sandwich?
He set one plate in front of me and sat down across from me with the other.
“Eat.”
I picked up the sandwich but hesitated before taking a bite. “Thank you.”
He grunted and took a bite of his own sandwich.
We ate in silence. It should have been awkward, sitting across from a man I barely knew, eating food he’d made for me.
But it wasn’t.
It was... comfortable. Quiet. Like we’d done this a hundred times before.
Which was dangerous thinking. Because comfortable led to complacent. And complacent led to hurt.
Dalton finished his entire sandwich before I’d made it through half of mine. He stood, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, and leaned against the cabinets, watching me.
The way he looked at me made my skin feel too tight. Like he could see through the professional clothes to all the soft curves Itried to hide. But there was nothing sexual in his gaze. Nothing warm. Just... assessment.
Story of my life. Too much woman for most men to handle.
Or maybe he was just waiting for me to finish so he could get back to work. Stop reading into everything, Amber.
“What? Do I have mustard on my face?” I set the last bite down, taking a napkin and running it across my mouth.
“No.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m making sure you actually eat.”
“I am eating.”
