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Her bright blue eyes were piercing and discerning. She didn’t give him a nod, smile, or bring any attention to herself.
Waving off the young host, indicating he had found his dinner partner, he approached the table.
She lowered the menu, and he was stunned at how young she looked. And beautiful.
It was a chore, but he managed to pry his eyes away from her sky-blue orbs, just long enough to take in her auburn hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Moving lower to, what he could tell, was a really nice rack.
His assessment solely for professional reasons, of course.
He reached out his hand. “Ms. Northrop.”
“Mr. Mason,” she responded without a smile, her eyes sweeping the room while shaking his hand. “Sit.”
He paused at the command, but pulled the chair out, rationalizing that she must be hyper-paranoid after, allegedly, being in an induced coma for four months.
Picking up the menu, he asked, “What’s good here?”
“I already ordered for both of us.”
His eyes landed on the open menu in front of her.
“I was checking out the desserts,” she said, pulling her utensils out of her cloth napkin and placing it in her lap. “I haven’t had much of an appetite since…coming to. And then, I was famished. It’s like my body was begging me to make up for months of lost nutrients and calories.”
It was hard to tell, being seated, but her medical condition didn’t appear to affect the upper half of her body.
Get it together, Mason.
He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “I have a number of questions. Why don’t you start talking, and we’ll see if we get them all addressed?”
“No.”
He waited. Raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“You’re on a need-to-know basis until I decide otherwise.”
He pushed back his chair and rose. “I see this was a waste of my time and a long drive.”
Thankfully, she stood, as well. Once upright, he could see that she was rather thin. Her wrist bones protruded from her hand as she reached out to grab him by the arm.
“Please don’t go,” she said, her eyes full of fear as they darted from one side of the restaurant to the other. “I’m sorry,” she said, releasing his arm. “I’m…” She ran her hand over her face and sighed. “I’m a little paranoid. I’m sure you would be too if your own family member had you kidnapped from your bedroom, taken to an undisclosed location, an IV jabbed into your veins, and forced into a coma while everything around you went to hell-in-a-handbag.”
He hesitated, her last-ditch expression breaking his resolve. He latched on to the back of the chair, pulled his seat back out, sat down, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Begin.” Because no matter how delicate and vulnerable she appeared to be, he refused to allow her to run the show and control communications. She had been an FBI agent in her past life. A group of arrogant individuals with the preconceived idea that under any and all circumstances, they called the shots. Typically, he’d allow them a short leash and then yank it when they got out of line. But this was a different situation. One that involved family.
Mia could’ve died.
Before Tatiana had a chance to respond, the waitress appeared to his right with her hands and arms laden with food. Some of the plates were filled with cooked meats, others raw for them to place on the table-top grill. Then another waiter showed up and added to the already packed table, with soups and side dishes.
Once everyone left and she had sent the waiter to check on the missing dak bulgogi, he gave her time to fill her plate and place some of the raw meat onto the grill. He gathered his own meal with about half the amount of food on his plate as hers.
Once she got a few mouthfuls down, she began. “As you know, my grandmother is not my biggest fan and neither is Errol.” She chewed as she added, “Flynn’s a different story. We’ll get to that. But seriously, who names their newborn twins Errol and Flynn? That alone is fucking demented.”
She deftly picked up what looked to be a braised potato with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth.
It was a sweet plump pair of lips, as lips go. And then she had to go and lick them. He forced himself to check out the plate of copchang—cow intestines—to help deflate the burgeoning zipper of his jeans.
Jesus, he could be an asshole sometimes.
