“Will you be at church tomorrow, Fox?” Amalee asks.
“No.”
She pouts. “But it’s a town tradition.”
“One you don’t observe,” Cleo adds.
Amalee lasers a glare at her. “And I suppose you do?”
Cleo blinks at Amalee like she’s a bug that wandered onto her food and she’s wondering if she should waft it away or swat it. “I’ve been there every Sunday since I began working with Helen. Have you had the flu? Are you contagious?”
Amalee scowls. “No, I’m not contagious. I’ve been busy.”
“Oh, of course. God doesn’t always work for everyone’s schedule. What is it you do?”
“I-I-I do charity drives and fundraisers.”
Cleo shudders next to me, a tiny tremor I only feel because I’ve got my hand curved around her leg. “Sounds amazing,” Cleo mutters in a flat tone I’ve only heard her use a few times. It’s when something triggers her.
“But I’m sure I can make the time tomorrow if you’re attending, Fox?”
“No, I’m not.”
Sam and Amalee hold the majority of the conversation while I try to figure out a way of pulling Cleo back from her demons. The food arrives, and I reluctantly let go of her leg, instantly missing her silky skin under my fingertips. She shakes out her napkin and puts it across her knee. I chuckle as I grab it and tuck it between her breasts.
“You’re going to want to protect that pretty dress.”At least until I get you alone. Then I can’t be held responsible for how it comes off.
“Your dress is very pretty,” Sam adds on.
“Thank you.”
Give it up already, dude. I shoot him another GIF of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes. He glares at the phone in his lap before sending me afuck youGIF.Nice.I shoot back an arrow emoji pointing in Amalee’s direction. His brows lower, his gaze snapping between us. Oh, for fuck?—
“So, is there a special someone I should be jealous of back in New York?” Amalee asks as she cuts up a piece of already small lettuce. This time, Cleo’s reaction would only be missed by the super non-observant.
“No,” I answer.
“That’s where you’re from?” Cleo whispers.
“It’s where I was working.”
But clearly it’s where she’s from, and that little niggling thought in my mind tries to place her again, like it did when I first met her. New York is a big place, but given she’s running from someone with means—top one percent means—then it’s very possible, probable even, that we’ve at least been in the same room before.
“Try the steak while it’s still sizzling,” I advise.
She blinks at the food, and I watch her wrestle to find her way back to the present. When she picks up her fork, I feel a sense of pride that she did that without coaxing or needing to be distracted. She fought her darkness and came out on top. It’s a silent struggle that requires the deepest of strengths. Distraction is great, until it’s not. Tell your brain enough times that it can’t handle shit without looking for something else to divert its attention, and it believes you. Then you literally rewire your neural pathways to always need one of those crutches in times of stress. It’s not healthy and how the hell she’s figured this shit out when she’s never seen a therapist is astounding.
She slides a piece of steak into her mouth, and all three ofus watch her. Sam is figuring out how he can get her to make him steak every Friday in their little home with a white picket fence, Amalee just looks jealous and hungry, while I’m wondering if she’d make that low groaning noise if it was my cock sliding past her lips and not the steak.
“Damn, that’s good,” she mutters, taking another piece from the giant sharing platter. She points her fork at Amalee. “Girl, put your salad aside and fucking eat. You only live once, and if he doesn’t like you for the way you look when you put food in your mouth, he isn’t worth your time.”
Amalee grips her fork as she eyeballs her salad. “Maybe just a little.”
And that’s why Cleo Williams is dangerous. She cuts you to the bone and then shows you the truth.
Amalee stabs the smallest piece of steak and chews on it thoughtfully. We all stare at her and wait. She covers her mouth with her hand. “That is so much better than the salad.”
Cleo snorts and Sam and I grin. Amalee relaxes, giving up trying to be who she thinks I want, and just lets herself shine. We share the massive platter of food and talk about the people we grew up with—who moved away, who stayed close to home. Cleo listens and asks questions every once in a while, but other than that, doesn’t try to dominate the conversation like many others might. The more Amalee lets down her guard, the more Sam sneaks glances at her. Now he’s getting it. We demolish the food, and it pleases me to see Cleo eating a little more than usual. I’m finding if the food isn’t her focus, she doesn’t overthink it.
