Page 12 of Princess of Thieves

“Amen,” I say, wondering what I’ve just co-signed in prayer.

His head snaps up, and he lifts his fork. “Dig in,” he says with a smile.

It’s incredible. I hate to speak ill of Tuck’s cooking, even after everything that happened, but this is next level. The shrimp is buttery and briny. The collard greens are chewy and seasoned with just the right amount of spice and bacon, and the black-eyed peas are so good I almost want to cry.

“You like it?” Guy says from the other end of the table.

I glance down at my plate and see that I’ve already demolished half of what I was served. “It’s not bad,” I say, shielding my full mouth with my hand.

“Good.” Guy smiles and sips his wine. “I trust that the clothes are all to your liking, that they fit properly and everything?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my dress, at the cardigan, and finger the hem of the angora. “Yes.” It’s basically tailor-made. “But you really didn’t have to get all this—”

“I won’t hear a word of it,” he interjects. “It was the least I could do. These are the sort of things you should have had all along.”

I shovel another forkful into my mouth and nod. I can’t deny that he’s...probably correct, on a technical level. In another life, in a distant alternate universe where Daddy wasn’t an addict and never crashed headlong into a telephone pole, killing him and Mama, I would be exactly this—a Southern debutante in fancy clothes being wooed by Sherwood’s most eligible bachelor. It isn’t me, not the me I’ve accustomed myself to being for so long, but maybe...

Maybe...

Well, fuck it. Maybe it’s the wine, but maybe it’s where I belonged all along.

I’ve never really belonged anywhere, so who’s to say?

I take another swig of wine and chase it with shrimp for good measure.

“I have to say,” Guy goes on around a bite of his salad, “you might be the first woman I’ve bought underwear for.” He laughs softly. “So I hope I did it right. I don’t have a ton of experience in that area. It’s quite a...personal purchase.”

My cheeks get hot in spite of myself, and I shift in my seat, my thighs rubbing against one another. Can he tell that I’m not wearing any? The thought sends a quick squeeze to my stomach and further down. No, I won’t think about that.

“It’s all great,” I say stupidly. “Thank you again.”

“Believe me, it’s the least I can do,” Guy says. “You came here with nothing but the clothes on your back after being...” He sighs and pauses—pauses so long that I have to look up and wonder what he’s about to say.

“After being...?” I prompt him. I stuff another few bites of the cornbread dressing into my mouth. God, but it’s good, and God, but it’s been a while since I’ve had something proper to eat.

“Well, after being trafficked, essentially,” he says, his eyes downcast at his plate. “I don’t mean to use such harsh terms. Especially as an attorney, I know better than to be imprecise when accusing of such things.” He pats his lips with his napkin. “But I really don’t see why that wouldn’t apply in this case.”

Something in my chest seizes. Was I trafficked? I didn’t even think about that. I wouldn’t have said yes—not at first, anyway—but then the fact that they wouldn’t let me leave, that there was such a huge secret they were concealing from me, that I honestly had no idea what their plans were for me... Well, maybe he’s right.

“At any rate...” Guy clears his throat. “I want to let you know that I won’t keep you here, but you are welcome to stay as long as you like. I know you may not have anywhere else to go.”

“Thank you,” I say, interrupting. I’m not sure that I will stay. I wouldn’t if I had anywhere else to go, but I don’t, and I don’t quite know if I can truly say he’s not trustworthy. I wish I had better women’s intuition. Wish I had had a less crappy upbringing and were better trained to understand whether people had it in for me or not. But as it is, my exposures to male generosity have been pretty conflicting, to say the least. I don’t even really know that much about Guy.

But I bet if I ask him, he’ll tell me more.

“So, what’s your deal?” I say, instantly wishing I’d come up with a better way to phrase it. “I mean, tell me about yourself.”

“About myself?” Guy smiles. “I don’t know that there’s that much to tell. You want my SAT scores, my golf handicap, my—”

“Why aren’t you married?” I cut him off.

At that, he laughs out loud, a rich, vibrant sound that rings against the paneled walls of the dining room. “You sound like my mother,” he says.

I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “I just mean...” I trail off. What do I mean, anyway? “I mean, you have so much to offer someone, I guess,” I finish lamely, looking around at the elaborate dining room for emphasis. “It just seems like—”

“I’m married to the job,” Guy says. “I’ve always been very focused on my career, first and foremost. Not that family isn’t important to me, but I knew I needed to get through my education and the first years of my profession before I made any serious moves in that direction. Of course, then my mom...” He falls silent, the only sound the soft strains of Miles Davis and the scrape of the tines of his fork against his plate.

I’ve touched a nerve, and I didn’t even mean to. “Your mom?” I prompt.

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