“Hi,” I tell her softly, once again fighting my instincts and releasing my hold on her.
“Can I ask why you’re here?” she hedges.
Oh, shit. Right.
“I’m so sorry about this.” Shame trickles in. I shouldn’t be here bothering her. “I thought I could stop by and ask a quick question, but clearly, I’ve interrupted your evening. Honestly, it can wait.”
“What is it?” she presses, standing upright again.
With a sigh, I weigh my options. I don’t want to cause more harm, but I don’t want to leave her either. In the end, my own selfishness coupled with the urge to take care of her in any way I can wins.
“Remember the fidget you gave me last week?”
She nods.
“I seem to have misplaced it.” I press my lips into a straight line, contrite. It’s more likely that someone swiped it—Ollie is still my primary suspect—but she doesn’t need the details. “I was hoping if it wasn’t too much trouble, that you would consider making me another one.”
“Sure,” she says without hesitation. She pivots on her heel, turningtoward the pair of 3D printers. “I’ll start it right now. I have the template saved, and that design only takes thirteen minutes.”
Horror shrouds me. “No, no.” I take a step forward. “I didn’t mean right now.”
She just explained how exhausting her evening has been.
“I was hoping to have it ahead of the race events this weekend.”
Her shoulders visibly relax. “Thank god.” Lifting her chin, she offers me a sheepish smile. “I really am wiped. My head is pounding, and I’m still seeing aura spots in my vision every few seconds,” she confesses. “That damn ring light does it to me every time.”
When she turns back to me, she wobbles slightly, and on instinct, I step forward and catch her by the arms.
“I’ve got you,” I promise, ensuring she’s steady on her feet. As I let go and step back, an unsettling thought occurs to me. “Have you eaten today?”
She grimaces, then follows it up with a timid smile. Then she shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. “Between volunteering yesterday and getting set up for this live, I guess I lost track of time.”
Fury licks up my spine. I keep it tempered by grinding my molars so she can’t see how upset I am. Then I quickly concoct a plan. “Sit down and let me make you something.”
Her jaw drops, and her face floods with abject horror.
I stifle a laugh. This woman is absolutely awful at masking her emotions. Or maybe—though this is probably wishful thinking—she just doesn’t try to hide them from me.
“I’m really okay,” she insists.
Ignoring her, I turn and get to work.
She groans, but at least she hops up onto one of the barstools like I asked.
I head to the sink to wash my hands first, noting the small pile of plastic unicorns and rainbows near the soap dispenser. On the other side of the sink are a dozen chili pepper beads lined up from smallest to largest.
“Alaric,” she pleads, her tone more serious than I’ve ever heard it.
I regard her over my shoulder, keeping my expression even. She can beg all she wants. There’s no way I’m leaving this room until she’s eaten.
“I don’t need you to cook for me. I have plenty of snacks in my suitcase,” she tells me, an edge of defiance to her words.
“Snacks?” I question, trying to quell my frustration.
“Yes. I’ve got pita bread and two kinds of trail mix.”
Fucking trail mix? So much for controlling my temper. The fury’s back, quickly transforming into white-hot heat that travels from my spine and through my veins.
