Page 35 of Trapped and Tackled

By the time we sit down to eat, I’m relaxed and relieved.

And Talon is looking at me like I’m the first woman he’s ever truly seen. Which makes no damn sense but makes me feel special. Desired.

And it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close that I don’t want this night—this dinner—to end.

I watch Talon as he takes his first bite of the veal schnitzel.

His gray eyes sink to half-mast as he drops his head back and groans.

I lean closer to the table, the edge cutting into my chest. “Do you like it?”

“Leni…” My name is hushed, spoken with reverence. Like crushed seashells mixed with magic.

I shiver from his tone.

He opens his eyes and pierces me with them. “This is the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.”

Nerves skate through me, causing my fingers to curl into the denim of my skirt. I titter out a laugh.

“I’m not kidding,” he continues, his voice serious, his expression unreadable. “I’ve never… No one’s ever…” He shakes his head and places his fork down. Folding his hands neatly in front of his plate, he stares at me. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” I whisper, feeling his appreciation down to my toes.

And having that—Talon’s acknowledgement, his gratitude—lights me up like the North Star. Lightness washes through me, sweeping away the shame I’ve carried for weeks. No, months.

I am enough. I am worthy.

Talon clears his throat and looks away for a beat. When he turns his eyes back on me, they’re heavy, ringed with midnight. Baggage, my sister Lincoln would say.

But Craig has clear eyes—sky blue—and he inflicted more trauma on me than I could’ve anticipated.

“No one’s ever cooked me dinner before, Len. This…” He pauses to gesture between us. “Is a first for me.”

I suck in a breath, his words punching through me. “Never?”

He shakes his head, his lips rolled between his teeth.

“What about your foster parents?” I wonder.

“Foster care wasn’t really like that,” he admits. “I mean, I ate,” he assures me. “But it wasn’t a special meal or anything. It was…survival.”

“Right,” I murmur, sadness rolling through me. For a blink, I can see Talon as a boy. Heather gray-green eyes and a crooked smirk. A backwards baseball cap and a missing front tooth.

And then, the charismatic man at the center of every party, injecting it with laughter. With fun. With surface-level frivolity so no one gets closer or digs deeper.

“I used to cook for my—for Craig—every night,” I admit.

A cloud passes through Talon’s eyes, but when he blinks, it clears. “He didn’t know how damn lucky he was.”

The corners of my mouth turn upward but I don’t smile. I can’t. “I don’t think he ever felt that way.”

“His loss,” Talon replies, his tone harder. Half bite, half bark.

“Maybe,” I reply, taking a bite of my dinner.

“Hey.” Talon reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. The weight of his palm rests on my fingers, strong and steady. “You deserve the world, Leni. Don’t let anyone, especially not some guy in New York, make you feel otherwise.”

I dip my head, my fingers desperate to stray to my collarbone. But I keep them pressed against the table, under the warmth of Talon’s skin. “I know,” I say, even though I don’t.

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