Page 16 of Worshipped by the BRATVA Grump

“Sorry,” she says, blushing.

“Why?”

“I’ve been talking forever. It’s one of my more annoying qualities.”

I shake my head from side to side. “It’s one of my favorites,” I say.

She smiles. It’s small and private, and something about that makes my chest feel too tight.

We order our food and drinks while Daisy continues chatting about the bookstore.

The food arrives and Daisy steals potatoes from my plate after specifically telling the waiter she didn’t want any. It’s strange, but I like that she takes food from my plate. It’s fresh and new and feels like something only real couples do.

I push the plate closer to her and she takes another. While she eats it, I find myself thinking about breakfast. Her sitting opposite me at my table with her hair up badly and one of my shirts on. Her cameras on the chair. Her talking before I’ve had coffee. Her books stacked up in places where I wouldn’t expect to find them.

I’ve thought about women before. Wanted them. Slept with them. I have never thought about where they would put their things.

Daisy catches me staring. “What?” she asks. “You look like you’ve gone somewhere in your head.”

I look down at my plate while she waits. I could lie. I don’t. “I was thinking about you in my apartment.”

Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. “Naked?”

“No.” The surprise on her face is immediate enough to offend me. “You wearing one of my shirts. A camera on my table. Your mascara on the hallway shelf.”

Her expression changes. Only slightly, but I see it. I continue before I can decide not to. “And a stack of books somewhere I’d trip over them.”

Daisy puts her fork down. “Mech.”

I hate when she says my name like that. Softly. It makes me want things I have no business wanting in a restaurant.

She presses her lips together. I drink some water and give her a moment before I tell her I’m not asking for an entire future with her again tonight. Her shoulders loosen, and I hate how much that bothers me.

“I don’t want you thinking I rejected you,” she says, pushing the last bit of food around her plate with the tip of her fork.

“You did reject me.”

“I rejected moving in, marrying you and having your children before breakfast,” she counters.

“All excellent ideas, despite the hour.” I wink at her.

She points her fork at me. “That. That’s the problem.”

“What?” I ask, shrugging.

“You say things like that like you’re asking whether I want coffee. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“I know what I want.” I place my knife and fork on my plate and signal the waiter to clear the table.

“I’m beginning to understand that.”

“Do you know what you want?”

She lowers the fork and waits for the plates to be removed. “Yes.”

I wait.

She looks around the restaurant as though the answer might be written somewhere over my shoulder before bringing her eyes back to mine. “I want this.”