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“That smells incredible,” I breathe, as I limp over to the desk chair.
“I hope you like soup,” he says, graciously holding out his hand. “Here, I can help you sit. Unless you want to eat downstairs.”
And face Killian and that grumpy Alpha-hole?
No. I’d rather hide in here until I plan my escape and hopefully make an ally.
So, I cautiously take his hand, his large palm encompassing mine, and he pulls out the chair for me, helping me situate myself. His touch is firm but polite, and a shiver runs down my spine at the contact.
“Do you want me to go?” He asks, after I’ve settled. There’s the smallest hint of hurt in his voice, but he keeps the charming grin on his face.
His kindness has me shaking my head.
“No. Stay,” I say, and his dimples are back.
He’s adorable.
“Is it alright if I sit here?” He asks, pointing at the bed.
My heart aches at his politeness. Unlike Killian, he seeks permission, and unlike Brock, he appears enamored by my presence.
I nod, and as he sits, I place the bowl and spoon in my lap and swivel the chair to face him.
“Thank you,” I say, bringing the spoon to my mouth. My eyes widen when I taste the rich, savory broth, and allow the steaming liquid to warm my body.
It’sincredible.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have more time to make it,” he admits, staring at his hands. “Usually, I like to prep the broth twenty-four hours in advance. It may be a bit bland.”
“Hold on,” I say after my second bite, enjoying the tender chicken. “Youmadethis? From scratch? This is delicious, Dylan.”
I could swear heblushes.
“Nah, you’re just saying that after a diet of gas station food,” he mutters, a small smile playing on his lips.
“I’m trying to notslurpthis down in front of you. What are you, a chef?” I tease.
He beams. “I am, actually. Or I was.”
I bite into the egg noodles and hold back a moan. “You were?”
“I had a five-star restaurant in Hollywood.”
I place the spoon back in the bowl. “Had?” I ask cautiously, dread creeping up my spine.
“West Hollywood. It um, burned down. Along with my apartment.”
“Oh, my God. That’s awful,” I murmur. “Was it during the protests?”
He nods. “Yeah. But it’s not about me,” he adds quickly. “I’ll be fine, after all of it. I’m always going to have Brock and Killian. The Alphas are the ones thatdon’thave to worry.”
I stay silent, finishing my food. He’s not wrong, but what does he expect me to say to that?
“I’m sorry this is happening to you, Olive,” he offers gently, after I place the bowl back on the desk. His eyes are kind as he regards me, his expression warm and welcoming.
This is my chance.
“If you’re sorry,helpme,” I whisper, scooting closer to him. His brow furrows as he looks at me, confused.
