Page 69 of Not in Love

“Fulfilling the promise I used to lure you here.”

“You have done that.” She looked sleepy and beautiful and confused. He had to physically restrain himself to avoid pulling her into him.

“The other promise. I said I’d cook for you, remember?”

“You don’t have to.”

Do not hug her. Do not kiss the tip of her nose. Do not run your hand up and down her back. You don’t have to stick your fingers in her hair, and you most definitely do not need to fucking smell her throat. It’ll just send her running faster than a reminder that you still own Kline’s loan. “Come on, Rue.” He gave her a chiding look. “I can’t just fuck you nonstop without feeling like more of an asshole than I actually am. I’m going to have to feed you, just to keep you alive and responsive. No offense, but I’m not into the alternative.”

She glanced away and then lowered her eyes, which was interesting. Atypical. Then said, “I’m weird about food.” He kept his face straight. Made no movement. She was skittish, and he didn’t want to spook her. He watched her swallow, twice, and offered no reaction when she added, “I struggle with non-sit-down meals. And with time constraints.” She held his eyes. “I’d rather not eat than eat in a hurry or standing up.”

“That’s not weird.” It did, however, make his chest icy and heavy. What she’d said about Alec feeding her. Tisha’s picture. The obvious fact that she was a food engineer who focused on addressing food insecurity. He wasn’t going to connect dots until she asked him to, but he reserved the right to nurse the cold, aimless anger that began churning at the bottom of his stomach.

“Not a huge fan of eating on the go, either.” He opened a drawer and casually took out two place mats. “Glasses and plates are in that cupboard. Make yourself useful, Dr. Siebert.” Her face betrayed nothing, but there was a trace of relief in her shoulders.

“Is this French toast?” she asked once they sat at the table.

He poured coffee in her cup. “Yes.”

“And this is the fancy dish your fancy chef ex taught you to make?” She sounded skeptical.

“Never said that the dish had to be fancy. And I recommend you try it before you say one more word you will regret.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she poured syrup on her toast, covered it with some of the fresh cream and the mix of berries, brought a bite to her lips with the air of someone who was doing him a big favor, and after chewing for a handful of seconds covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Holy shit.”

He gave her his most told you so look.

“What the hell?” She seemed affronted. “How?”

“Secret recipe.”

“It’s French toast.”

“As you now know, not all French toast is created equal.”

“You’re not going to tell me what’s in it?”

“Maybe later.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you behave.”

She took more slow, leisurely bites, eating in a precise, methodical way that reminded him of the morning spent in her lab, and he watched her with a sense of accomplishment that couldn’t possibly be justified.

What the fuck was she doing to him?

“I have a request,” she said, dabbing a napkin to her mouth.

“I told you, it’s a secret.”

“Not that.”

“What, then? A story?”

“It doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to . . . I don’t need the terrible parts, if you don’t want to share them. I just want to know about your ex-fiancée.”

Ah. “What, precisely?”

She scouted for the perfect question, then settled on: “Who broke the engagement?”

“She did.”

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