White paper bags with black lettering.Regalia.
I’ve heard of it but never been there.
The smell hits me a second later—garlic, tomato, basil, something fried and warm. Comfort food smell. The kind of thing that would normally make me ravenous.
Nico is in my kitchen like he belongs there, jacket off, sleeves pushed up a little. He looks up when he hears me, and there’s no surprise on his face.
I get the feeling he isn’t surprised often.
“Come here,” he says. It’s not sharp, but still feels a bit like a command.
I walk the rest of the way on autopilot and stop at the edge of the kitchen.
The Regalia bags take up half the counter. He’s already unpacking containers, lining them up neatly.
A foil pan. A couple of smaller plastic containers. Paper-wrapped bread.
My mouth waters and my stomach roils unpleasantly with nausea.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my voice hoarse.
He pauses with a lid in his hand and looks at me.
Not the way he looks at people at the office. Not that quick, assessing sweep like he’s categorizing problems.
This is slower.
“Okay,” he says. Then, “When’s the last time you ate?”
The question feels like a trap.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t know. Like I can wave it away.
He doesn’t let me.
“Erica.”
My throat tightens around my own name.
Just lie. Tell him you ate at the hospital. A couple of hours ago.
His gaze holds mine for a beat, then drops briefly to my hands at my sides, to the way my fingers are curled like I’m bracing.
He sets the lid down.
“My dad couldn’t eat before surgery,” I start, already knowing it’s bullshit and already knowing he won’t buy it. “I didn’t want to eat in front of him, so I figured I’d get something at the hospital.”
There. That’s the truth. Ididintend on getting something at the hospital.
“What did you get?”
I stare at the floor between us.
I rub my thumb against the side seam of my sweatpants.
Just lie, damn it!
But I can’t. It sticks in my throat, and I end up opening and closing my mouth a few times, like a guilty little guppy.
