“Now,” he announces, “feed me. I’m starving.”
I rise to bring it over, ladling stew into both our bowls. The smell coming off it is heavenly, rich with thyme and beef. I even remembered to fish the bay leaf out at the end, so I’m pretty pleased with myself. He’s buttered a slice of crusty bread for me by the time I sit, the small domestic gesture doing something to my chest I refuse to examine.
He lifts his spoon. “Wait. On three,” he says, and I raise my own spoon to match. “First bite together.”
“On three what?”
“One,” he counts. “Two.”
“Three,” we finish together.
He puts the spoon in his mouth, his eyes falling shut. Mine never makes it to my lips because I’m watching his face. He chews once, then again, his expression giving away nothing at all. Then he leans forward, drags my bowl across the table toward himself, ladles half of mine into his already full one, andstarts shoveling stew into his mouth at twice the rate any man should eat anything.
“Excuse me.” I sit up straight. “What are you doing?”
“Mmf.”
“Grayson.”
He swallows. “It’s so good. I worked up such an appetite at practice.”
“Then eat your own bowl, you animal. Give me mine back.”
He pulls my bowl out of reach, one arm a barricade between me and the food, the other hand waving me off. “You sit there and look beautiful. I’ll handle the eating.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Grayson Wolfe.”
“What?”
I lean across the table and reach for the bread. He intercepts me, sliding the plate to his side, then tucks two of the buttered pieces under his elbow and guards them.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Extremely serious.”
I sit back and study him. He looks back at me with wide, innocent eyes, cheeks slightly puffed around a mouthful of stew. Something is wrong here.
I get up, walk around the table, and snatch the third piece of bread off his plate before he can stop me. He makes a wounded sound low in his throat. I take a small bite to make my point, chewing with deliberate slowness, glaring at him the whole time. The bread is fine. It’s just bread, plain and a little dry. Then I slide my spoon into the small puddle left in my bowl, scrape up the last teaspoon, and put it in my mouth.
The salt slams into the back of my tongue, and my eyes flood instantly. I clap a hand over my mouth and stare at him over my fingers, my whole face on fire. His expression still hasn’t changed by a single degree.
“This is horrible,” I gasp through my hand. “Grayson. This tastes like the ocean.”
“It’s perfect.”
“It tastes like ass.”
“It’s seasoned beautifully.”
“It is not seasoned; it has been salted. How are you eating this?” I lunge for his bowl. “Stop, you’ll make yourself sick. Hand it over.”
He turns his shoulder, lifting the bowl out of reach with no effort. “No.”
“Grayson, this is inedible. I’m ordering you a pizza. Put the bowl down.”
“You made it for me.” His voice drops, the teasing gone out of it. “I’m eating every single bite.”
The breath leaves me on a half-laugh, half-sob I didn’t see coming. He’s still got it tucked against his chest. His face has gone mock-solemn, his eyes soft, and he keeps the ruined stew pressed where I can’t reach it. This is the man who’s become a shield for me over and over again. No matter what the world throws at me, he doesn’t let it touch me. He’s trusted me with his son, with his heart. And now he’s prepared to swallow an entire bowl of stew that tastes like a salt mine just because I made it.
