Page 204 of His White Moonlight
He sighed and didn’t say anything until the waitress delivered our food and left.
“It’s frustrating when you deflect.I don’t know if you’re doing it because it’s a closed subject or if you're doing it to keep us from getting closer.”
“Closer implies we’re close,” I said, picking up my fork.
“We sleep together.”
“Not by choice.Eat your food, Bennett.”
I awkwardly forked a mix of eggs and hash browns into my mouth with my non-dominant hand and fought to keep my face straight.Years of eating posh food had either ruined me, or the cook was using a griddle that hadn’t been properly cleaned since the turn of the century.
Without looking up, I continued chewing and got my next bite ready as I waited for Bennett to take his first bite.It was comical.He froze for two seconds then reached for his napkin.I moved fast, reaching across the table to steal it from him.
“Seventeen stitches.Swallow it, Bennett.”
He did.Without chewing.
“I will have the exact same food waiting for you at home if you promise me we can leave without finishing this,” he said, his revulsion still on his face.
“No deal.There’s no reason to wake Sandy up in the middle of the night.We go home, andyoumake the food while I shower.And when I go back to work, I get absolute freedom during my lunch hour to do what I want without interference from you.”
“I agree to cooking while you shower, but not absolute lunch freedom.Not while you’re hurt.You don’t have to be with me, but you have to be with someone I trust to keep you safe, like Miranda, Mom, or Grandma.”
“How is Miranda first on your list when she cut me?”
“You know why.”
Because she’d done what everyone else would have hesitated to do.I sighed.
“Fine.Cook for me while I shower, and I’ll do what I want with my lunch hours with an approved escort for as long as I have stitches.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”I laid my napkin over the food and stood.
Bennett tossed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table and walked out behind me.
The numbness in my arm was starting to wear off by the time Bennett pulled into the garage.Even though I didn’t say or do anything, he knew I was hurting.I could tell by how frequently he glanced at me.
“Food, Bennett.”
He got out and came around to open the door for me.
“How fresh should the oil be for your hash browns?Is a week too fresh?”he asked.
I snorted and followed him into the kitchen.
“Just make them greasy and good.”
He stopped me when I would have left.
“Wait.Let me wrap your arm.”
He had it plastic-wrapped and taped off before he sent me on my way.
It took some time before I reemerged from my shower.
Bennett was sitting on my bed, holding a steaming plate of food.His gaze swept over me from head to toe, lingering on the towel I had pinned to my chest with my non-stitched arm.
