Page 67 of Return To You

I pull up a bar stool next to her. “Hey. Got a minute?”

“I’m in the middle of something,” she snaps.

“I’ll wait.” I stand, go behind the bar, and just like I saw Colton do the other day, I grab the gun and fill a tall glass with club soda, then plop a slice of lime in it. Justin cocks an eyebrow at me. His mouth twitches into a repressed smile, but he says nothing. Then I grab a paper coaster, set it in front of Grace, set the glass on top of it, and round the bar to stand next to her.

“It’s gonna be a while,” she says, staring at the glass but not touching it.

“Then lemme get you somethin’ to eat.”

She shuts her eyes briefly, and I take it as my cue to go.

By that time I know the lay of the land. Two hours doing dishes didn’t happen without noticing how things were run and where stuff was stored. I don’t want to bother the chef, Shane, so I grab a plate and make Grace an Ethan special.

“The hell is this?” Justin asks when I set the plate in front of Grace a half-hour later.

I shrug. “Just—proteins and vitamins to keep her going. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Nothin’ fancy my ass,” Justin comments. “Let’s pick this up later, Grace. Enjoy.” He leaves, silent laughter shaking his shoulders.

I sit on the stool Justin just vacated, sideways so I can look at her looking at her food. Or at me. Whatever she chooses.

She clears her throat. “How d’you do that?” she asks, picking a radish delicately carved in the shape of a rose.

I shrug. “Eh. Some people say I’m good with my hands.”

At least she graces me with the shadow of a smile. Runs the radish in the hummus that’s nested in a carved-out tomato and bites into it. Then her thin fingers pick up a julienned carrot that’s been wrapped into the shape of a heart. “That must take forever to make.”

“I have all the time in the world for you.”

She nods slowly. Dips another radish in the hummus and eats slowly. Wipes her mouth, squeezes the wedge of lime in the club soda, and takes small, ladylike sips, her throat bobbing in the most erotic way. Then she picks up a piece of toasted baguette lathered with olive oil and herbs. “Would you like some?” she asks.

“Not yet. You’ve worked all day. You’re exhausted.”

“I don’t want to eat alone.”

“You’re not alone. I’m watching you.”

She smiles, a big smile that hits me right in the heart, warms me to the core. She glances at me sideways, just a flash, just a nanosecond of eye connection. She places a piece of prosciutto on the baguette, tops it with a cornichon, and turns to me, our knees brushing briefly.

“Chris and Justin, they have this thing about food bringing people together. Either you’re eating with me, or I’m not eating at all.” Her smile is soft and confident as she brings the food straight to my mouth, and this time our eyes connect and never let go, and I don’t have anything to say. So I close my mouth on her fingers.

She blushes deeply and turns back to face her plate. “Thanks for picking up the delivery today. Claudia told me.”

“Was nothin’. Happy to help.”

She nods and blinks a few times. “It’s been crazy busy at the spa.”

I nearly reach over to caress her hair, tell her it’ll be alright, cup her cheek. The temptation to touch her is too big, so I turn to face the bar. “Any news on the sale ?” I ask her. It has to be the main thing on her mind—it’s not like I’m bringing up a topic she’s trying to forget.

She shakes her head. “There was a visit. The realtor almost lost it when the girls pretended to be buyers and talked the building down in front of his clients. Apart from that, nothing.” She plops an olive in her mouth and chews pensively, her gaze fixed nowhere in particular.

I clear my throat. What can I say or do to make her feel better? Nothing comes to mind. “Do you need something stronger than water?”

She shrugs softly. “Maybe later.” Then she takes a deep breath and turns her adorable face to me. “You wanted to talk?”

“It can wait.” Right now, I want to see her happy. I want her to finish her food. I want to give her a foot massage. I want to pour her a glass of wine. “You’re not finishing your veggies?”

“They’re not veggies. They’re works of art. I can’t.”

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