Page 38 of The Stalking King

I roll my eyes. “Okay, Mr. Love Bomb.”

“I looked that up online earlier,” he says, pulling my chair out for me. “Apparently, it’s when assholes trick women into falling for them by showering them with fake affection. The thing is, Lia, I can’t fake this. I’d need more practice.”

He walks over to the oven, grabbing some gloves and bending down to take out the lasagna. I watch him, a big smile on my face. It’s so nice to be taken care of for once. He turns, sees me smiling, and winks like he’s just read my mind.

“I’m only kidding,” I say.

“I’m glad you think of things like that,” he replies. “It’s clever, and it’s better than the alternative. Walking through life defenseless.”

“That smells delicious,” I say.

“Nikolai is rarely wrong about food. If he didn’t work out so much, he’d be screwed.”

“Are you close with him?” I ask.

He pauses, leaning against the counter, thinking. “Yes, as close as men like us can be.”

“Were you close growing up?”

He considers again. “I was somewhat of a father figure to him. Our own father had his… issues. Drink, mostly. The belt if he got bored.”

I gasp. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to shock or elicit sympathy. I’m just used to talking to people who already know about it. It was years ago now. Thirsty? We’ve got champagne or OJ or soda.”

“Soda’s fine with me. I have to work tomorrow. But don’t let me stop you.”

He frowns, crossing to the fridge.

“You’re going to get mad I’m not drinking?”

That’s a major red flag.

“No,” he says, sounding confused. “Just—you work so much. I’m worried about you.”

That touches me deeply. “I have to,” I say.

“Because of your mother?”

I nod. “I wouldn’t change anything though,” I add quickly. “She was there for me. Now, I’m going to be there for her.”

“When was she there for you?” he asks.

“When I was a kid.”

He frowns again. “Liora, that’s the job of a parent.”

“Can we please not talk about this?”

“Sure. I didn’t mean to offend.”

I stand. “Actually, do you mind if I take a quick shower? I feel sticky and gross.”

“Sure, it will give time for the lasagna to cool,” he says. “And you don’t have to ask to have a shower in your own home.”

“Ha, ha,” I mutter.

I hurry upstairs, mostly because I don’t want him to see the effect his words have on me. He’s just voiced something I’ve only ever thought in my deepest thoughts.