Get it together, Orlaith. Been there, done that.
Lived to tell the tale.
I scrape together every sapling of courage I can find in my overgrown insides, draw a deep breath, and ask, “Will you share a meal with me?”
“Always,” he rumbles, the word almost knocking me off my seat. “If you’re happy to serve me?”
Servehim?
All I’ve had to do this entire time to convince him to share a meal with me is …serve his food?
Heat bursts in my belly, and I almost laugh, floundering through a long silence while I wrestle my delirium into some semblance of an answer, lathering more layers of light upon my trembling dome. “I’d love to. Do you want to get out of your wet clothes first?”
He swallows and nods, then moves through the room, grabs another towel off a wall shelf, and gets to work undoing his pants, easing them down—
Feeling something cold brush against the side of my face, I look at the window, and our gazes collide.
He’s watching me through the reflection.
Watching me watchhim.
Undress.
I suck a breath and look away, cheeks burning as I focus on the thistles and their sharp little spikes.
His footsteps pound the floorboards, making the hairs on the back of my neck lift as he brushes past so close I’m certain no more than a hair’s breadth separates us. He settles into the seat I set for him, a blue towel tied around his middle.
I force my gaze on the thistles again.
He’s.
Not.
Mine.
Raising the lid on the stockpot, I release a waft of steam, pouring the room full of the rich, hearty fragrance.
“Interesting choice of vase,” he murmurs, and I glance at the bunny as I reach for his bowl.
“It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And so realistic! Whoever crafted it is very talented.”
He makes a choking sound that has me pausing with the ladle half dug into the stew.
“You okay?”
He nods, banging his fist against his chest real hard. “I’m fine. Please continue.”
“Don’t choke to death before we get to share our first meal.”
“Been there, done that.” He flashes me the faintest smile. Warm.
Playful.
“Lived to tell the tale.”
My cheeks heat, and I lower my lashes.
I ladle some stew into his bowl, feeling his gaze trace the motion. “Is that enough?”
