He flashes me this goofy, lopsided smile, almost boyish, not at all like the guy who dragged me out of my old life at gunpoint.For a split second, he looks so damn cute it almost makes me want to smile.
I don’t, but it’s tempting.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Are you thirsty?” He holds up a bottle of water. I nod gratefully, grabbing it fast. I raise it to my lips and gulp half down in one go. Probably not the best move, letting him see how desperate I am.
He just watches, his face unreadable.
What the hell does he want from me? Why am I here? What is he going to expect from me?The questions spin and spin in my head, bouncing around like pinballs, getting louder every time I try to turn them off. I don’t trust him. Hell, I don’t even trust myself around him.
I want to scream from the tension of everything. But screaming won’t get me anywhere. So I settle for watching him crack eggs into a bowl and whisk them up while butter melts in a pan on the stove. Everything is so shiny, like it just came from the store. I’m guessing he doesn’t cook much at home.
“You live here alone?”
He glances over his shoulder, “Yeah.” His blue eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I was just wondering. It’s just… so much bigger than my apartment.”
He folds cheese into the eggs, movements precise. “That’s not where you’ve always lived, is it?”
I stiffen. “You know a lot about me already.”
“I know about your father.” He says it hard.
Right.
I mean… I guess it is his job to know who he’s dealing with.
I want to tell him everything…how it feels to love someone who keeps letting you down, feeling like you’re dragging the weight of their mistakes everywhere you go. But I keep mymouth shut. He doesn’t want to hear it, and I’m tired of making excuses for men who should know better.
“You know,” I say in a low voice, “there’s more to a person than what you see on paper.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” He turns back to the stove. The smell of butter and eggs fills the kitchen, too homey for this morgue of an apartment.
I wish I could get a good read on this guy. Usually, when a customer walks into the diner, I can size them up right away. I know how to treat them and know whether I need to steer clear of a wandering hand. Nothing is more infuriating than having your ass pinched while walking by with a tray full of food. But Jack isn’t most men. Rather, he’s a secret wrapped in muscle and danger. I can’t figure him out, and it’s pissing me off.
Not that I’m scared or worried. I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to hurt me and that he’ll protect me. Apparently, he’s taking a big risk by having me here. Not only do I feel it, but I heard it in his voice, the way he was talking to that Trent guy.
I just wish I understood what was in it for him. There’s only one thing that comes to mind, and I wish I knew how I felt about it. Honestly, the idea should turn my stomach. I’ve seen what he’s capable of. I truly believed he was going to blow my father’s brains out.
He’s already proven he’s not a trustworthy man. And just because he can cook an egg isn’t a good enough reason to believe anything he’s said to me. Right?
He slides the omelet onto a plate and cuts it in half. Making sure the pieces are even. That tiny act, so careful, so weirdly gentle, makes something twist inside me. I almost smile, then catch myself.
He sets the plate in front of me. “Eat.”
I keep my eyes down, stabbing at the eggs. “Thank you.” My voice is barely a whisper. It’s easier to be mad when I’m not looking at him.
Why does he have to be so good-looking?
I could stare at him endlessly. This would be so much easier if he were ugly, mean, and nasty. At least I wouldn’t feel so torn. I could hate him, and that would be it.
We eat in silence. The second food touches my lips, it becomes my life’s mission to inhale everything in front of me.Not that there was much to begin with.I wolf down the omelet like it’s the only food I’ll ever see again. He watches every bite, his expression unreadable. I clean my plate, push it away, and finally look up. He’s got a little smile playing on his lips, feeling proud or something. Like feeding me is some big accomplishment.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.” He clears the plates and takes them to the sink.
Just like that, all the tension in my body comes roaring back. My hands grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles hurt.Is this it? Is this when he cashes in whatever debt I owe for that plate of eggs?
