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“Leigh—”
“Don’t tell me not to hate her. I hate her.”
“I know better than to talk you out of anything.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Don’t care.” I eat another slice of eggplant Parmesan. It’s still delicious, but it doesn’t thrill me the way it did a few minutes ago.
It’s nothing compared to Ryan’s body against mine.
Compared to all that concern in his piercing blue eyes.
“Here.” Ryan pushes his plate toward me. “Take what you want.”
“You aren’t hungry?”
“Still feel like throwing up.”
“She does that to you?”
“Worse.”
“Tell me about it.”
He shakes his head.
I fight a frown. I can’t ask him to talk if I won’t. But, God, I want him to talk so badly. “I can’t eat all this.”
“Take it home. Eat it for dinner.”
“Maybe.” The white fish flakes against my fork. Melts on my tongue. Tender. Buttery. Lemony.
It’s delicious, but I’m not eating his lunch.
I push the plate back to him. “No.”
“No?”
“You insist on making me eat.”
“Not like that.”
“Yeah, like that. You give me shit about not eating.”
“Someone has to take care of you.”
Warmth spreads to my fingers and toes. He wants to take care of me. God, does he have any idea what he does to me?
What that means to me?
I feel it everywhere.
My eyelids press together. My head fills with images of a life together. A real one. Waking up in his bed. His arms around me as he scrambles eggs. The two of us arguing about coffee roasts, opting to use the French press so we each get exactly what we want. The smell of java filling the air.
Those soft lips on my neck.
