Page 43 of Graciously His

Patience…

I turn her over to face me.

“We’ve talked about this, Grace. You have to function like a human being in order to be a functional human being. That means eating at mealtimes.”

“Says the guy who only eats once a day.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “And now you get to watch me eat my single daily meal. Come on, love. Don’t make a guy eat all alone.”

She sits up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m going to feed you anyway.” I flick the blankets off her, seize her wrists, and pull her up. “Either you walk or I carry you. Let’s go.”

She frees herself with a huff, but she’s up. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’d best not forget it.”

I’m tempted to take her wrist again, to keep her at my side as we walk down the accordioning hallways, but Grace is skittish. I settle for leading the way.

“We’re eating in here tonight?” she asks, looking worried when I gesture her into the dining room.

“It’s our first meal together in our first house.” I’ve laid the table beautifully, with candlesticks, long tapers, and linen napkins. A violin concerto plays on the hidden speakers, adding to the soothing atmosphere. I can’t wait for the time when Grace’s own style will feature here. For now, it’s simple but elegant. I push her chair in and bend down to kiss her hair. “Be back in a sec.”

The steaks are perfectly rested and the rice is ready. I put everything on a tray and carry it through to the dining room. Grace is sleep-rumpled and sorrow-eyed in the flickering candlelight.

Beautiful.

I serve her first. She stares down at the plate. “Did you make all this?”

“The ribeyes and rice, yes. The veggies, no. Let me know what you like best, and I’ll make sure we always have more of it.”

She hesitates, but I dig in. The best part of eating one meal a day—aside from the immense clarity of mind—is how fucking good food tastes when you’re properly hungry. The steak is medium rare and my body sings with gratitude as I cut into it. Grace eats her meat slowly, piece by small piece, leaving the bloodiest bits to one side. I watch her as I savour every bite, enjoying how the candlelight softens the shadows beneath her eyes and catches on the waves of her hair. I swallow the last bit of my steak and reach for the covered tray, where a second pair of ribeyes sit under tinfoil.

“Another?”

“No,” she says, shifting the rest of the food around the plate without eating it.

I serve myself a second steak, the rarest of the bunch.

“Eat your rice. You need to balance your macros.”

“I have no idea what that means and you know it.”

I raise my brows inwardly, even as I take another bite. “You need to balance carbs, proteins, and fats if your body is going to process food properly. If you don’t have your carbs, you’ll transition into ketosis. It’s not a bad thing, but you don’t need that kind of stress right now. So have at least a few bites of rice, then eat some veggies. They’re sautéed in duck fat. You’ll love them.”

She glances at my plate. “If macros are important, why don’t you have any rice?”

“Because it makes me bloat, which I only found out thanks to Eileen. Come on now—do I have to spoon-feed you? Because,” I set my cutlery down with a clink, “I will.”

Her answer is a resentful mouthful of rice. She eats about half her portion of rice, but finishes the green beans. I make a note to get more.

“Now,” I say, when she puts aside her cutlery, “let’s talk about who gets access to your bullet journal.”

She doesn’t meet my eye. “I won’t do it.”

She’s playing with non-sequiturs, forcing me to the defensive before we’ve even really started.

I let a measure of impatience seep into my voice. “What, exactly?”