Branson gets to his feet, looking mildly perturbed as he waits for me to pull myself together.
“Can I get you a drink?” he offers when I’ve recovered.
I can tell he isn’t a huge fan of dramatics, so I do my best to sound as unhysterical as possible. “Yes, please.”
He saunters to the kitchen, opening an overhead cupboard and taking out two crystal tumblers. “Whiskey okay?”
I remember reading somewhere that whiskey has an alcohol-by-volume content between forty and sixty-twopercent. I was taken aback by those numbers at the time, and grateful that I don’t drink a lot of whiskey.
Now, I offer a silent, travailing prayer.Dear Lord, please, let the bottle Branson has fall on the highest possible side of the alcohol-by-volume spectrum. Thank you. Amen.
“Mm,” I hum, mimicking a sound I’ve heard unhysterical people make in the past. “Perfect. Thank you.”
He cracks open a new bottle of whiskey, pours two fingers of amber liquid into each glass, and hands me one, neat. I throw it down the hatch in a single gulp and hold the glass out to him immediately.
“Huh,” he says as he pours. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think he might be showing signs of amusement at my expense. Either that, or he’s judging me.
I sip the next drink a little more sophisticatedly, but not much. When I’ve drained my glass again, I look at him hopefully. He tops me off again, but I can’t help noticing it’s a lighter pour than the first two.
“You need to eat something,” he says, like it’s a fact, not an opinion.
He’s treading dangerously close to telling me what to do, and it raises my hackles. I ready myself to put him in his place, but the whiskey washes over me in a slow, warm wave that soothes me.
God. I hope it’s the whiskey, not his voice.
Much as it pains me to admit, he’s not wrong. I probably should eat something. I skipped lunch, and now that I think of it, I am peckish.
“Oh God!” I say, clamping a hand to my mouth. “I didn’t bring any food. Jensen was doing the shopping for us. I-I brought board games. Pictionary and a murder mystery game kit. I brought costumes for everyone, but no food.” I emit a pathetic, aggrieved wail. “Oh God. Oh God.” My breathing speeds up rapidly. Short, shallow gasps that I’m positive do nothing to give Branson the impression that I’m easygoing. “I’m going to die of starvation. I can’t go without food for ten days. I’m not built for it. I can’t even do a two-day cleanse. I’ve tried. My sugar levels crashed after the first day, and my mood suffered like you wouldn’t believe. I’ll beawfulif I starve. I’ll turn into an absolute monster, and then, and then…I’ll die. Every nice thing people say about me at my wake will be a lie.”
A very long, very heavy sigh snaps me out of it and brings me back to myself.
Shit. I think I said all that aloud.
There’s a harsh, angular shadow under Branson’s eyes that makes it clear he isn’t particularly enjoying exposure to this side of me. Something he quickly confirms in the most irritating way possible.
“Calm down,” he says.
Calm down?Calm fucking down?I’m trapped in the middle of goddamn nowhere with the biggest, most intimidating alpha I’ve ever met, for God knows how long.
I ready myself to put him firmly in his place. He might be tall as all get out and able to grow more facial hair than three average men put together, but that’s neither here nor there. No one tells me to calm down and lives to tell the tale.
“It’s fine, Lucien,” he says before I have time to correct him. “Don’t panic. I have plenty of food. I keep a three-month stockpile here in case of emergency. I have more than enough for both of us.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, thank goodness for that.” Ordinarily, I’d have very mixed feelings about finding myself in the company of someone giving such distinct prepper vibes, but given that Branson’s pessimism might well be the very thing standing between me and certain death, I find it more of a comfort than a concern. “And thank you for…having me. I’m sorry about all this…me being here, and all. I’m sure it’s the last thing you need.
“Eh,” he replies. He isn’t particularly happy with how things have panned out, but he’s too well-mannered to say it.
It unnerves the shit out of me. It’s not that I’m a people pleaser as such. It’s just that in order to be the best, most agreeable version of myself, I need everyone to like everything about me.
I decide to kill him with kindness. “Can I help with dinner?”
“Nah. You stay there. I’ve got it.”
See? This is exactly what I was talking about when I said Branson isn’t easy to be around. The societally acceptable response to an offer of help in the kitchen is “Sure, thanks. Could you chop some onions, please?” or something like that. It’s not about the activity or whether you need help. It’s about making the other person feel comfortable. Everyone knows that.
I stay on the sofa and stare straight ahead as he dices onions and sautés chicken. The longer I sit there, the more aware I become of the layout of the room. The sofa is big, U-shaped, and slate gray with deep seats. There are side tables on either side, with matching oversized table lamps that cast a soft, warm glow.
All the furniture in the living area faces the fireplace. It dominates the room and is the clear focal point of the space. And that’s fine. It isn’t a problem.
