Page 69 of Negotiating Tactics

The discomfort of an ice-cold shower was better than the nothingness I had felt since that phone call.

Had it been three days?

I’d take his word for it.

I hadn’t even looked at my phone and assumed the battery was dead.

I’d been too busy wallowing in my misery to care.

I didn’t know how long I stayed in the shower, but when I emerged, I didn’t necessarily feel better, but I was clean.

Habit had me brushing my teeth and then putting on moisturizer.

The thought of the full detangle my hair would need made me want to crawl back into bed, so I brushed it back as best I could and then went into the bedroom.

Was shocked when I saw a made bed, complete with clean sheets.

I left the bedroom and found Noah standing at the small bistro table in my kitchen, which was now covered with bags from the deli at the end of the block.

He didn’t look at me when he gestured at the bags. “Vegetable soup. Cranberry walnut bread. Eat it,” he said.

I was going to argue, but my words were drowned out by my grumbling stomach.

Not a surprise. I thought I’d eaten an apple yesterday but couldn’t quite remember.

“Clean sheets and soup in less than thirty minutes. Impressive,” I said, trying to sound like my normal self even though this situation was anything but.

“I was going to cook something, but there’s nothing here,” he said, his voice brimming with disapproval.

I bristled. “It’s not like going without for a few days is going to hurt me,” I said.

He slammed the quart of rice milk—my favorite brand, a fact I tried to ignore—he’d taken out of the bag against the table. “Shut the fuck up and eat the fucking food, Alex.”

I looked at him, and he glared back at me, his anger palpable.

His expression dared me to say something else, but weakling that I was, I looked away.

Besides, there was no reason for Noah to see me any more pathetic than he already had.

So, I ate the soup and bread and started to feel better.

Noah pushed a bottle of water into my hands and then cleared the table.

I gulped the water greedily, not realizing how thirsty I’d been, and when Noah came back, he pulled me out of the chair and into his arms.

He hugged me so tight that it was hard to move.

Not that I was trying.

There was a desperation in his hug, and a sense of relief that I couldn’t ignore, and I was sure no one had ever hugged me quite like that.

He broke the embrace and then, his hand clasping mine, walked us to the bedroom.

He sat, his back against my headboard, then pulled me into his lap.

Held me for long, quiet moments before he spoke, his voice angry—and hurt. “What was that about, Alex?”

Instinct put me on the defensive, a place I was far more comfortable with than all the shit Noah made me feel. “What, I take some time to myself and it’s an international fucking incident?”

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