Page 26 of Collide
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving.” My voice is a little too hoarse.
His eyes darken with a thought, but he says nothing.
“That smells good,” I comment, the smell of the food interrupting my inappropriate lusting over a complete stranger.
“I hope you don’t mind Chinese food,” Alex offers with a smile, casually rolling the hospital table over to my bed. “It’s usually quick.”
Shifting in the bed to sit up, my whole body feels like jelly.
Ugh, hospital beds are the worst.
“Chinese is fine right now. I could eat anything,” I say, licking my lips.
Including you.
Oh my God, did I just…I quickly shake the thought from my head.
Alex starts unpacking the contents of the paper bag, a banquet fit for two. He grabs two of the boxes and heads back to his seat.
“You could sit on the other side of the table if you’d like,” I suggest, feeling a little disappointed that he doesn’t want to sit closer.
He looks at me for a moment, his head cocked to the side. His eyes are so intense, and I feel like I’m being analyzed. He probably feels bad for me, and I’m reading too much into this situation.
“Okay.” He grins, getting up from his seat.
That one word sends flutters to my stomach.
He waits for me to shift and cross my legs to give him more space. Placing his boxes back on the table, he sits on the bed, slipping off his shoes.
I watch him intently—he looks like a model.
Maybe he is.
We eat in silence for a moment. I’m too hungry to care, but then, with a mouthful of pork dumpling, he breaks the silence.
“So, what brings you to New York?” he asks, his voice soft and casual.
“Family and work,” I reply between bites. My mouth is full, but I’m too ravenous to care.
“What do you do?”
He looks at me then, eyes narrowing slightly as though sizing me up. There’s a glimmer of something in his gaze, but I’m probably imagining it.
Chewing quickly, I swallow before answering. “I’m a recording artist.”
“Whoa,” he replies, surprised. “What kind of music do you sing?”
“Mainly pop,” I explain, my cheeks flushing. “And I dabble in a variety of different genres, depending on what strikes my mood.”
He glances down at his food, his attention diverted. I feel a little self-conscious about my answer.
So stupid. I probably sound like I’m showing off.
“So, what about you?” I ask, trying to steer the focus off myself as I shovel more food into my mouth.
He pauses, eying me for a moment, then smirks. It’s the kind of smirk that makes me wonder if he’s laughing at an inside joke I’m not privy to.
