Page 23 of Not a Perfect Save

Her lids snap open at my grunt. My fingers and the other half of the roll are still suspended in the air. Maybe she sees a hint of what I’m thinking because she leans forward and takes another nip, almost taking my fingers with her.

“Hangry, are we?”

“You have no idea,” she says, her mouth full. “Besides, you did call me a carnivore. Now gimme.” I feed her the rest of the roll.

Gooey sauce coats her lips, and I continue to stare as she meets my eyes. She licks her lips, subjecting me to even more visual torture—this time I think it’s deliberate—before she grabs a napkin and dabs her mouth.

“Perv.”

“Totally.” I lean back and smirk.

I polish off the rest of the food while Ella sinks into the leather couch. She yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Tired?” I ask.

“Nah. Too many carbs.” Her lashes drift down.

“Do you want to go to bed?” I ask when she yawns again.Say no.

“No, not yet.”

“Want to watch a movie or something?”

One eye opens. “With you?”

“No, with your friend over there,” I nod at the mannequin. “Or would you rather I leave?” I don’t want to, but I will if she tells me to.

Ella bites her lip, looking me over. “No. Stay.”

I give myself an internal fist bump as I stand to clear up while she starts flipping through channels. Nasally voices grate through the speakers.

“What is that?”

“The Real Housewives.”

“You want to watch that?” I’m not all that picky about what we watch, not if I get to hang out with her, but I’d have preferred something less… noisy.

All I get is a shrug. When I settle back next to Ella on the tiny couch, our thighs are only a foot apart, and her bad leg is resting on the coffee table. Her attention is fixed on the screen, but her fingers twitch when mine find their way beside them.

The show is fascinating and horrific. I’ve heard of the series before, of course, but I’ve never actually watched it.

A scene comes on at some upper-crust party. Two women are screaming at each other after discovering they’re both wearing the same one-of-a-kind runway outfit. I finally find myself smiling when one of them smashes a cake into the other. I slide a glance over at Ella, but her face is tight.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Her expression is anything but entertained.

She must feel my continued stare because she says, “I don’t know why I watch this show. It’s like watching a bad rerun of my childhood.” Her eyes still follow the woman, now yelling something about dry cleaning and lawsuits.

“You grew up like that?”

“Yes, but think the New Jersey edition. There were the same kind of get-togethers growing up.”

“You didn’t enjoy them?” I ask.

She makes a face. “Hated them.”

“Why?”

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