Page 80 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
She sat.
“Good. Now stay.”
Her lips tightened. Stay? Like a dog? But she kept her mouth shut.
Cabinets ope
ned and closed, the refrigerator opened and closed, the microwave hummed and chimed, liquid was poured into a glass. She didn’t see any of it because she didn’t turn around to look because she was staying—as instructed—put.
When he gently set the plate in front of her and she looked down, all her irritation vanished and she felt…she felt…gratitude. And wonder. Roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered green beans—she’d been expecting a frozen dinner, a few pieces of meat slapped between slices of bread.
“What’s this?”
She looked up at him, but he’d turned away so she couldn’t see his face. “There wasn’t any food here. Had to go out and get some.”
She looked back at the plate, perplexed. “You…cooked?”
His low chuckle drew her eyes to him again. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, one corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. Since when do you cook?”
His face darkened. He glanced away. “Since I needed a hobby. To keep me from—to pass the time.”
There was so much more to that, she felt it all underneath the simple words. But he glanced back at her, and his face had cleared.
“You should taste my sweet potato pie. It’s killer.”
Her mouth opened. It closed. It opened again and she said, with feeling, “Wow.”
He gave her a true smile then, one that lit his face and his eyes and brought out a dimple in his cheek. She had to look away because she thought she’d never seen him look so beautiful. Tattoos and piercings and acres of muscles and a glower able to freeze lava that he wore more often than not and still he was always the most beautiful thing to her, masculine and strong and real.
She looked at the plate and was appalled to find it swimming in the moisture that had gathered in her eyes. He set silverware down and a glass of white wine and then sat beside her. She knew without looking his eyes were on her, intent.
“Eat,” he said softly.
It’s a terrible feeling, trying not to cry, pretending everything is okay and getting your face and body to cooperate. She almost had it together, too. Her hands were steady when she reached for the glass and her face was composed, but there was too much damn water in her eyes and a single tear spilled over and tracked down her cheek. She swallowed the wine she’d poured into her mouth anyway and set the glass back down, pretending like that bastard tear hadn’t escaped, but of course he saw it. Of course he did. He was right there.
His voice so, so gentle, D said, “It’s only food.”
“No, it’s not,” she whispered. She didn’t dare look at him. “You cooked for me.” She said it again, emphasizing each word. “You. Cooked. For me.”
“Well,” he murmured, laughter in his voice, “had I known this would be your reaction, I would have done it years ago.” He reached out and brushed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the tear she’d tried so hard not to let fall.
She looked up at him then, and let everything go. It all showed on her face, everything she felt for him, all the anguish and confusion and pain and longing, and she knew he saw every nuance, every spark and hope and the bottomless depth of her despair because his breath caught and his smile vanished and when he looked back at her it was with sudden fierce intensity burning in his eyes.
“I…I…” She couldn’t get it out, but it didn’t matter.
“I know,” he whispered, vehemently. “I already know.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was barely audible, and his face was so close and she thought he might kiss her. And she wanted it, she could die with how much she wanted it, but he exhaled, a heavy, doleful expulsion of air, and she knew he wouldn’t.
He withdrew. He stood up. He walked to the doorway and paused, then said quietly, “Eat.”
He watched her until she took the first few bites. Then, satisfied, he turned and moved away, and it was all she could do not to throw the plate of food against the wall in frustration.
But she didn’t, because as it turned out, she was really hungry.
And damn, but the man could cook.
