“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, sighing as my eyes fall closed again.
“Starling, you ran miles today, you need to fuel your body,” he says, a little more insistently.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich.” Dismissing him, I pull my legs to the side and roll upright.
“That’s not dinner.”
“Neither of us can cook,” I remind him.
“I’ll hire us a chef.”
Scoffing, I shake my head. “I don’t want a stranger in the house.”
“They wouldn’t be a stranger, they’d be staff.”
“And let someone else see how fucked up we are?” I snap, pushing up from the couch and walking slowly from the room.
“We’re not fucked up,” he argues.
Laughing dryly, I shake my head again. “We’re the epitome of fucked up.”
The cramps in my legs have started to ease by the time I make it to the kitchen and find two places laid at the kitchen table, a candle lit in the center, and a creamy-looking pasta dish filling two plates.
“You should have said you were planning to order takeout.”
“I didn’t. Evan’s house manager bought it round for us.”
“Why?”
“Because I told Sammy you weren’t feeling well, and she was worried about you.”
Scoffing derisively, I smirk. “So, you lied to her.”
“No, you’re not yourself today.”
“No, Sebastian, I’m not the me you want me to be, there’s a difference,” I tell him, pulling out a chair and leaning over to blow out the candle before I twist some pasta onto my fork.
Sighing, he takes the seat opposite me and starts to eat, the silence stretching and thickening until it’s stifling. Taking two more mouthfuls, I place my silverware together on top of the leftover food and stand, carrying my plate over to the sink.
“You don’t like it?” Sebastian asks, his brows furrowed in concern.
“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” I tell him, scraping the remaining food into the waste disposal, then putting the dish and silverware into the dishwasher. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“I’ll come with you,” he offers, starting to rise from his seat.
“I’m not going to climb out of the fucking window, Sebastian, but why don’t you have my security team come and watch me to make sure?”
“Starling,” he growls.
“What? You’re either so worried that I’m going to escape that I need a visible team of security guards, or you’re not. Where are they? Are they outside?” Marching into the hallway, I make a beeline for the front door, throwing it open to find the car fromthis morning still in the driveway and a suit-clad man standing sentry by the front door.
“Hey,” I say, speaking to the guy. “What’s your name?”
“Tom Underhill, Mrs. Lockwood. Did you need something?” the guy answers, without a hint of shock at me bursting through the front door and speaking to me.
“Yeah, come in.”
Glancing around, he nods and steps into the house. “Is there a problem?” he asks brusquely.
