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“I’m surprised you can cope with a hobby that involves so much delayed gratification.”
“I'm very persistent when I want something.”
Those dimples will haunt me for the rest of my life.
“I appreciate this.” I cross my knife and fork on my empty dish. “But I don’t want you feeding me all the time. I didn’t hire you to be my personal chef.”
“Not gonna happen.” He snags the last bit of golden breading from my plate and pops it into his mouth, sucking the grease off his finger.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Something about the way he examines me, the spark behind his eyes, tells me he enjoys pissing me off a little. He thinks I’m easy. Maybe I am. “I feed people who don’t take care of themselves. It’s my job. I bury them in delicious food until they crack and do what I tell them just to make me stop.”
“Now who sounds like a psychopath?”
He shakes his head doggedly. “Did you feed yourself right? Before I got here?”
“Of course.” Kind of. Mostly.
I carry the plates to the kitchen and roll up my sleeves to do dishes while he stretches out on the couch and turns on the television. There’s something natural about it, like we’re an old married couple on a quiet evening in, and I catch myself thinking that I should subscribe to Netflix, so he has something to watch. Hot water burns my hand and I almost drop a plate. “By the way.” I raise my voice over the water. “I have old friends coming to stay in a few weeks. If you’re still living here, I’ll move you to a hotel while they’re in town. No offense.”
He shifts, looking over his shoulder. “Is this thekept boyguy?”
“Precisely. You can see why I’d rather not deal with that the entire time he’s here. You wouldn’t either.”
Yawning, he snuggles deeper into the couch. “I thought it was kind of funny. I’m not actually pretty enough for people to pay to look at me.”
He has no idea. Men would line up for someone like him, to pamper him or try and break him. “If you’re fishing for compliments, I’m not indulging you.”
He blinks. “I don’t think I’ve ever fished for a compliment. Is that what I was doing? I’m not very good at fishing.”
It strikes me that in the whole brief time I’ve known him, I’ve never heard anyone praise him, not even once.
I shut off the sink and set the last dish out to dry. “Forget about it.”
The following morning, still full from the heartiest meal I’ve had in a long time, I shuffle to the kitchen at dawn to pour a mug of coffee that I can drink in bed while reading my email.
I almost step on Jonah’s head, and it scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Gulping silently for breath, I stand over his body sprawled on the floor, trying to figure out if he somehow died in the night. But he’s breathing in that way he has when he sleeps, happy and deep, like he might start paddling his legs as he dreams about chasing rabbits.
He’s stretched out on the rug next to the couch, his t-shirt riding up around his middle, clutching the case briefing I gave him. Based on the pages he scattered across the coffee table, he’s still only two-thirds of the way through.
I wonder why he brought it home when I never told him he had to. I wonder how late he read before he passed out on the floor. And I wonder for the first time how many nights he has spent awake trying to read things that should only have taken him a few hours.
“Shit,” he hisses, jolting awake to find me standing right next to him. “Hi. This is not my bed, is it?” He awkwardly tries to shove the sheaf of papers under the couch, scrambling to his feet.
“Your suits came while you were out shopping last night.”
Misery fills his eyes, like he hoped they’d get struck by lightning on the way over. “Oh. That guy works fast.”
“They’re hanging in my closet. Go get dressed. Since you’re up, we’ll go in early today.”
He shoves the briefing further under the couch with his toe. “Yes, sir.”
