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“Pile ’em up, sir!” I command, holding my plate out, and he serves me two ladles full of scrambled eggs onto it. When I don’t pull the plate back, he dumps a third ladle onto it with an impressed expression.
“Guess you weren’t lying.”
Just to drive the point home, I compile a plate that a competitive eater would’ve been proud of. He makes his more modest plate, places it on the chaise lounge, and then returns with a glass of orange juice for me and a teapot.
“Coffee?” I ask through a bite of sourdough toast.
He flashes me a look. “No coffee for you. It’s three a.m. I’ve seen you at three a.m., and the very last thing you need is more caffeine.”
It’s the first time he’s ever even alluded to us having met before, and I wonder when we’re going to talk about, well, everything.
We eat in silence, and he gets up once just to refill my orange juice without my asking. I notice then that he’s only wearing socks, no shoes. I don’t know why it tickles me. Maybe that’s why he seems so comfortable here. Because he is.
My mind flashes back to when he made the comment about not allowing himself to be comfortable. I wonder if that counts for this place. And how often he allows himself to come here to relax.
And it also reminds me of something else…
“Kingsley?”
“Yes?”
I put my fork down on my empty plate. “I’m, er, I’m sorry about that night. The… dancing and the…”
His tongue dances across his front teeth, considering my words for a moment. “Forget it,” he finally says without looking up.
“I am sorry. I guess you can understand now… what I was going through.”
He looks up from his plate, locking his eyes with mine.
As always, it takes my breath away.
How does anyone manage to have a conversation with this man with those eyes staring back at them?
“Why didn’t you tell me that your father had just died?”
People are really hammering me with the questions today.
“I didn’t know you.”
“You knew me enough to cry in my arms.Twice.You could’ve,you should’ve,told me.”
Straightforward. Direct. Valid.
I did exactly what he’s saying.
But the accusation puts me instantly on the defensive. “Why? So you could play knight in shining armor?”
“You asked me to hold you, Luna.”
Thanks for the reminder, jerk.
I wince from firsthand embarrassment. “I’m sorry…”
He frowns and waves away my words. “I said forget it. I’m not asking for an apology. I’m asking for an explanation. So you can stop apologizing.”
“Not even for grinding on you? For trying to kiss you when you were trying to be nice to me?” Now I’m just torturing myself. A single index finger rubs the spot between my eyebrows, trying to erase the memory, my entire body curling with embarrassment all over again.
But he doesn’t react at my reminders. Either he doesn’t even remember that they happened, or he’s the kind of guy who that happens to so often that my antics that night didn’t even make a dent.
