Zane’s gaze flickered, confusion and concern mixing in his eyes, as his voice dropped to a low, almost broken whisper. “Who did this to you?”
A flood of thoughts crashed through me.
What if I told him? What if I told himeverything?
The bruises that didn’t always show. The threats that were carefully crafted to sound like love. The nights I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t sure which version of Heath would come through the door. The times I left early on, before the physical abuse, and went back because he’d made me believe I had nowhere else to go.
What if I laid all of that bare for Zane?
But I couldn’t. I was still stitching myself back together, and I wasn’t quite ready to hand over those pieces of myself that I’d only barely come to terms with.
“He’s…” I sighed and tucked my bottom lip between my teeth. “Not worth the air it takes to say his name or even talk about.” My throat tightened, but I powered through. “I’m starting over now, and part of that…” I added lightly, reaching for something—anything—to soften the awkward ache clinging to the air between us, “is learning how to bake pies.”
His brow lifted, seemingly caught off guard by my sudden change of subject. “Pies?”
“Mmmhmm.” I pushed off the barstool and walked over to the fridge, needing something to do with my hands before they started shaking. “Peach Bourbon to be exact.”
Behind me, he let out a short breath—something that almost sounded like a laugh. “You’re deflecting again.”
“Yes,” I said, opening the fridge and pulling out the pie plate, “but with pie.” I turned and gave him a look, lifting an eyebrow. “Is it working?”
Leaning back against the counter, he crossed his arms and watched me with that frustratingly unreadable expression. “Yes and no.”
Cutting a generous slice, I placed it on the center of a cake plate and popped it in the microwave. It hummed low and steady as I leaned against the counter across from him, doing my best to mirror him and act like I wasn’t dodging emotional landmines with baked goods.
“You’re really not gonna tell me anything?” he asked. “Not even a little?”
“Nope,” I said, tapping the display as the timer counted down. “But I’ll feed you pie.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You know that’s not a fair trade, right?”
“Depends on how good the pie is.”
The microwave beeped and I turned, grabbing the plate and a fork as the warm scent of peaches and brown sugar wrapped around us. I crossed the space and held the plate out to him. He took it, but instead of walking away with it or digging in, he stayed put, watching me for a long, slow beat.
“You gonna make me eat alone?”
I hesitated, then grabbed a second fork and leaned against the island beside him. Close, but not too close. He took a bite—slow and thoughtful—then looked over at me with the kind of expression that made my stomach flip.
“Well?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Zane’s tongue swept across his bottom lip, catching a little syrup at the corner. “It’s damn good.”
I smirked. “Told you.”
He broke off another piece with his fork, but instead of taking it for himself, he held it out to me. My eyes moved from the fork to his. “No sense in dirtying up another fork.”
A beat passed as I looked again from the pie resting on the edge of his fork and back to his eyes, before leaning in and closing my lips around the bite. Maybe I imagined it, but his eyes darkened just a little as he watched me chew.
The crust was flaky, buttery and still warm from the microwave. The bourbon gave the filling a slow heat that lingered just long enough to make my cheeks warm. I looked up to find Zane still staring—a slow, easy grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. My pulse skittered. That smile, that heat, it was dangerous in all the right ways. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else practically vibrating under his skin, something coiled and careful, like he was holding himself in check.
I took another offered bite, slower this time, and let my shoulder graze his when I leaned in just a little.
He didn’t pull back. Just kept watching me.
“What?” I asked, swiping at the corner of my mouth and licking a bit of peach syrup off my thumb.
Zane’s gaze didn’t waver. “Just thinking.”
