Page 67 of Little Sunshine

“Med time?” she asked when I didn’t speak.

“Dinner first,” I answered. “You need an ice pack in the meantime?”

Earlier, when I’d found her to reapply the ointment, I’d pressed for a real answer on how she felt instead of her dismissive fine. She’d admitted what her teary eyes had already said.

Her raw, burning skin was the most painful part.

“No, I’m just tired.” A smile tipped her lips. “I don’t know how since I slept so late.”

’Cause you’ve been through hell.

I didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t need the reminder.

She stood and clicked off the TV before approaching.

When she was within reach, I didn’t step out of the way. I caught her chin in my hold and tilted her face up. “You sure you’re okay?”

There was a pause. A brief one. Just a millisecond’s hesitation. And then it was gone, along with whatever had been weighing on her. Her expression was blank, like her face wasn’t covered in scrapes and bruises.

“Like I said, just wiped.” She smiled, and nothing about it was forced. But that didn’t mean it was as genuine as it appeared. “And hungry.”

“Then let’s get you fed.”

Mila followed me as I went down the rear staircase to the kitchen. She sniffed the air as the scent of garlic grew stronger. “What smells so good?”

“Pasta. Dining room, living room, or out on the porch?”

After a moment, she asked, “Where do you usually eat?”

“Over the sink if I’m inhaling something before bed or on the couch while I watch TV.”

“Living room, then.”

I’d assumed she’d pick solitude and that convincing her to let me eat with her would require a boardroom-style negotiation. I sure as shit hadn’t expected her to choose being with me.

Not giving her time to change her mind, I handed her the plate of pasta and salad I’d already dished out before grabbing my own. She trailed me again, and I set my shit down on the coffee table before handing her the remote. “Got cable and every streaming service you can think of. Put on whatever you want.”

“What do you watch?”

“The news.” At her grimace, I chuckled and repeated, “Put on whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

“Clearly,” she muttered as I backtracked into the kitchen for a beer for me and a water for her. When I returned, she blinked up at me. “Can I have a beer?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For one, you’re on pain meds that shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol.” There were other spots to sit, but I took one on the same couch. I did give her space by sitting at the opposite end as her, but that was as far as I was going. “For another, you’re only twenty.”

And the reminder of that makes me feel like a dirty old man because it doesn’t stop me from wanting to pull you onto my lap to feed you off my plate.

Mila’s eyes widened. “How do you know how old I am?”

Since I couldn’t admit to having her cyberstalked, I said, “Lucky guess that you just confirmed.” I kept my tone conversational so it didn’t come across as an accusation. “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I don’t. I’ve never even tried beer.”

“Then a dark stout isn’t the place to start.” I lifted the bottle toward her nose. I couldn’t stop the grin when she scowled and shuddered from the small whiff.

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