Page 39 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

Barely.

And only because—thankfully—the first round of servers arrives, carrying skewers of sizzling meats.

Including—oh my God—bacon-wrapped chicken thighs, and juicy, tenderpicanha.

A tri-tip sirloin cap, grilled to perfection, its thick fat layer crisped with sea salt.

But truthfully?

I don’t even notice the food.

Because Horace and I?

We’re too wrapped up in each other.

We talk. About everything. About nothing.

He’s so easy to talk to—which is ridiculous, because I barely know him.

But here I am, telling him things I never tell anyone.

Like how I love watching rugby matches.

How it’s my dream to see the All Blacks perform a haka before a big game.

And Horace?

He tells me how he got into coding as a kid.

“I probably would’ve been diagnosed with ADHD if Dad had sent me to a psychiatrist,” he says, shrugging. “But he was an engineer. So instead, he sat me down in front of my first computer—which was in pieces—gave me a manual and challenged me to fix it.”

I blink, impressed despite myself.

“And?”

Horace grins. “After that, I started messing around with programming. And, well, now here we are.”

I shake my head, grinning back at him. “You are something else, Horace.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean it.”

And I do.

Halfway through the meal, I sigh happily, leaning back in my chair.

“Everything is delicious,” I say, finally acknowledging the food.

Horace watches me, his eyes darkening slightly, before he says, low and warm, “I’m glad you like it.”

Then, with a teasing smirk, he adds, “It’s refreshing to see a woman actually enjoying her food.”

The words hit me like a truck, slamming me back into old memories.

Edgar’s voice.

Edgar’s insults.

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