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“Oh,” Evangeline murmured.
She looked down at the meal she was preparing, color rising in her cheeks, embarrassment dulling her usually brilliant blue eyes. It was like a physical blow to his stomach and made him feel like the worst sort of ass for being so blunt and making his statement sound like a reprimand. As though she had done something wrong. When actually, the fact that she had prepared a home-cooked meal for him touched him absurdly. His own mother, what he could remember of the bitch, certainly hadn’t ever cooked him anything.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed whisper. “I can throw it out. I misunderstood. I’m sorry,” she said again.
He felt like he’d just kicked a puppy, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. He in no way wanted to hurt her feelings when she’d obviously gone to great effort to prepare what appeared to be a sumptuous dinner.
“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “It smells delicious, and good food should never go to waste. I’ll just call the delivery service and cancel our order. How long before dinner will be ready?”
She still wouldn’t meet his gaze, and she picked up a large spoon and stirred the ingredients in one of the pans.
“It’s ready now. I was just keeping it warm so I could serve it as soon as you got here,” she said softly.
He realized their talk was going to have to wait until after dinner, but he wasn’t about to start out by hurting Evangeline’s feelings and give her reason to erect a wall between them. No matter if it tasted like shit, he’d eat it and compliment her on it because he wouldn’t humiliate her in any way.
And he reminded himself again that she’d cooked for him. It was a simple thing, but no woman had ever offered to cook for him, much less made the effort to have dinner ready as soon as he walked in the door from work.
He walked over to where she stood and slid his arms around her body, molding her back to his chest. He leaned down and brushed his lips over the bare expanse of her neck, smiling when he elicited a shiver from her.
“If it tastes even half as good as it smells, then it will be excellent.”
She relaxed against him, the tension escaping her body.
“Why don’t you go change into something more comfortable and I’ll get dinner on the table,” she said in a shy voice.
He kissed her neck one more time, this time nibbling at the silky skin before disengaging himself from her and heading to his bedroom. Okay, so the talk would have to come after dinner, but the fact that she’d cooked for him said something. She wasn’t fighting, and apparently she hadn’t had a change of heart.
He’d fully expected Justice to call him and bitch and moan about playing babysitter today, but to his surprise, all Justice had said after he’d dropped Evangeline back at Drake’s apartment was, “You’ve got a good one, Drake. Don’t fuck it up.”
He frowned. He’d already seen Maddox’s reaction to her, as well as Thane’s. And now Justice had evidently fallen victim to her charm as well. He wasn’t at all certain he liked the impact she was having on his men. She’d have them all eating out of her hand, and he had a suspicion that if Evangeline did get cold feet and bail, one or all three of the men would make a play for her.
Like hell that was going to happen.
After changing into a pair of comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, he returned to the kitchen to find Evangeline arranging the plates on the dining room table. When she heard him, she turned, a grimace on her lips.
“I wasn’t certain of your preference in wine, so I bought red and white.”
“I like both, so I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.
She opened a bottle and poured two glasses, then stood nervously, watching him as if unsure what to do next.
“Sit,” he said. “We don’t want the food to get cold.”
He pulled back the chair for her and she slid into it, and then he took the one across from her so he could watch her and see into her eyes. He hadn’t even paid attention to what she’d been cooking, but now that he examined the artfully arranged plate before him, he realized she’d blackened a fish fillet with a sauce drizzled over it. There was a baked potato and two side dishes he didn’t recognize. But it looked—and smelled—good.
The presentation was worthy of any restaurant he frequented. He was accustomed to fine dining, an indulgence he didn’t deny himself now that he had the means to do so. Growing up dirt-poor and always hungry had a way of carving a man’s soul. He’d made a vow on his mother’s grave when he was eleven years old that her life would not be his. That he would do and have more. And above all, he’d sworn he’d never be hungry again.
