I back up against the counter and cross my arms. “What kind of tea do you like?”
“The best kind would be none at all.”
“Coffee?”
“I think I’ll take the glass of warm milk.”
“Can I heat it in the microwave?” The stove is entirely covered with plates.
“I prefer it simmered with the utmost care and attention on the burner in a cast iron pot, so I get my daily dose of iron.”
I roll my eyes. “Coffee it is. Let me guess. You like it black as your soul?”
He stalks across the kitchen, pulls out a chair and drops down into it. He’s casual about it, seemingly annoyed with his clenched jaw and flinty, narrowed eyes, but I don’t miss the way he holds himself away from the chair’s back and keeps himself rigid. Like it would hurt for him to relax for a moment.
“With a bit of cream. Because I have a baby stomach and it will burn otherwise.”
I don’t bother to bite back my smile and start adding a filter and grounds to the maker. I buy good coffee. I’m a bit of a snob. Try as he might, I think this stuff will be impossible for him to hate.
My hands start shaking a little as I scoop in the grounds. I can feel Shadow’s hot gaze on my back.
I know that logically I didn’t talk him into staying. He didn’t leave because where would he go? He was being dramatic. He might have taken a bus ride or even a short trip somewhere, but where? Does he have anywhere else? Would he have gone to such extreme lengths to truly abandon everything because ofme? No. That doesn’t make sense. He didn’t cave or give me an inch. Well, maybe. Maybe I did wear him down.
Maybe some secret, lonely part of him wants this. Doesn’t everyone crave some form of acceptance or even the smallest amount of friendship and love?
He has those things. The club. My dad. He has friends. He has work. A life. It’s not valueless. There’s probably nothing that even needs to be fixed. What he was saying was true. I can’t insert myself into his life and start trying to pay back a debt that he doesn’t even think exists.
I get the coffee brewing and turn around slowly, hoping my thoughts aren’t reflected on my face. “Can I get you a cookie or two?”
“Would now be a bad time to tell you that I’m allergic to sugar?”
I snort. “As if. I have hard things I want to say, and you’ll need something to do with your hands, so humor me and pick a few.”
“Surprise me,” he drawls with forced boredom.
I heap up a plate with one of everything and set it in the middle of the table. I give him one of those fancy square napkins leftover from last year’s Halloween party at the clubhouse.
I sit directly across from him. I pick up a molasses cookie and get right into what I want to say. It’s not going to get any easier as the night goes on. Who knows how long Shadow is going to stay before he bugs out of here too. I don’t want to waste my one day of the month.
“You said that I thought you were some kind of project. You accused me of having an overactive imagination. Of being fanciful.” He waits, clearly amused, thinking that I’m going to try and negate all of that. “You’re wrong about most of that, but I did have a thought because of what you said. Everyone deserves to feel comfortable in their skin. You clearly don’t.”
“Wow,” he breathes. Horribly, he starts to slow clap. “I commend you on your powers of observation.”
“Maybe if I saw the scars, you’d be convinced that now you’re justyouin my mind. Not a hero. Not a mythical being. Not- not anything better or worse.”
“That’s your icebreaker? You could at least give a guy a moment to break his teeth on this cookie before you try and get him naked. If you want to gape at them, you could just say so.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms defiantly, determined not to show just how much those words slash across my already bleeding heart. If he can put on an asshole front, and that’s clearly how he wants to play considering the way he showed up, then I’ll force myself to be game. I thought being blunt about this wouldhelp. I thought that maybe that’s exactly what he’d need. “This is me saying so. And there’s nothing wrong with those cookies. They’re perfectly baked, perfectly delicious perfectness.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even tried one.”
He takes the one stuffed with jam and sinks his teeth into it. He chews aggressively, smearing jam on his lips.
I’ve never wanted to leap across a table and lick raspberry jelly and crumbs off someone as badly as I do right now.
“I’d say,” he says around a mouthful. “That I’ve had better.”
