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“You are. Now come one, let’s eat something.”

Before I can protest, he’s guiding me through the crowd, his hand switching to the small of my back.

A massive spread of food lines the reception hall from end to end, making my gut twist with equal parts need and nausea.

Breathe. I need to breathe.

“Pick something.” His breath is warm against my ear. “Anything.”

“I told you, I’m?—”

“Naomi.” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it that makes me look up at him. His eyes are serious, searching mine. “One bite. That’s all I’m asking.”

One bite of…

Chocolate-dipped strawberries glisten under the chandelier lights. Too sweet. Too rich. The calories would sit like lead in my gut. The seafood tower? God no. Those prawns look like they’re staring at me, judging. The pasta? Might as well tape it directly to my thighs.

Brandon’s hand burns against my back, steady and warm.

I glance at the other side of the buffet.

“Salad.” I eye the mixed greens. No dressing. I could pick around the candied nuts and avoid the cheese crumbles.

“Try again.” His thumb traces small circles. “Something with actual substance.”

The vegetable crudités? Raw. Simple. But it would be awkward to pick out one carrot, and it wouldn’t fit his requirement of something with actual substance. So…

“Here’s the deal.” He reaches for a small plate, loading it with a single butternut squash ravioli. “You eat something, and I’ll switch to water for the rest of the night.”

“That’s manipulation.”

“It’s negotiation.” He grabs a fork, holding both out to me. “Take it or leave it, cupcake.”

The ravioli looks innocent enough, delicate, and perfectly formed. But after last night, I don’t know if I can hold something so buttery in.

spear“But only because you’re insufferable when you’re drunk.”

His laugh is soft, genuine. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I stare at the ravioli on my fork, its edges glistening with butter. One bite. Just one bite, and he will stop drinking. Simple math. Easy trade.

So why won’t my hand move?

“You’re thinking too hard.” His fingers brush my arm, feather-light. “It’s food, not nuclear physics.”

“It’s not just—” I snap my mouth shut. No. We’re not going there.

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” I force the fork to my lips. Butternut squash and sage dance across my taste buds, and—cinnamon. Clara.

My throat closes up. The room spins, and suddenly, I’m eight years old again, standing outside the church, Mom’s perfume surrounding me like a vice.

I drop the fork, and it clatters against the plate.

“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice sounds far away.

My stomach heaves. No. Not here. Not now. Not with him watching me like a hawk.

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