Page 27 of Hold the Line

“She knows who it’s for?”

“She does.”

He scuffed his work boot on the pavement. “I appreciate it more than you know, but I can’t eat it.”

I moved in front of him, catching his lowered gaze. “My whole family is nut-free for Jesse. He ate this meal with us. It’s safe.”

It took a moment for him to agree, but he finally did. “All right. Thank you.”

“Do you want to eat at my place? I can warm it up for you, and I have an actual table and chairs. Not to mention cutlery and real plates.”

He chuckled, smoothing a hand down his front. “I’m filthy. You don’t want me in your apartment.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t mind that at all. That his version of filthy was sexy as all get out to me. But I had a feeling he’d get spooked if I was that forward with him. “Get cleaned up then. It’ll take me a few minutes to heat up your dinner anyway.”

We parted at my door, and I bustled around my apartment, straightening pillows and putting away the few odds and ends I’d left around.

He was back in under ten minutes, in a fresh band T-shirt and clean jeans, his hair wet and combed away from his face. I let him in, catching a whiff of soap and something spicy. Maybe aftershave or cologne. I liked that he’d taken that extra step before coming over.

He stood at the edge of my living room, his head swiveling left and right. The bones of our apartments were identical, but everything else was different. Tapestries and prints I’d picked up at fairs and markets hung on the fresh celery-painted walls. A comfy couch piled with plush pillows sat in front of a thick wool rug, facing a small TV on my vintage credenza.

“Looks like someone really lives here,” he said.

“Well…I do. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I don’t have any plans to move. I like pretty things.”

“It’s nice. I’m guessing you decorated your bakery too.”

“I did. Camille and my mom gave a lot of input and helped me shop, but the basics were all me.”

He nodded. “It smells good in here.”

“Come eat.”

I waved him over to the kitchen and ordered him to sit down while I dished up his food. I piled the plate high and placed it in front of him.

“What do you want to drink? I have water, beer, an open bottle of wine…”

He looked up at me, the ruddiness in his cheeks deepening. “I’ll have a beer if you’ll join me.”

“Sure.” I smiled at him. “I like the sound of that.”

I grabbed one for us both and settled across from him, watching him dig into his food. He started slow but once he’d gotten his first taste, his speed picked up, shoveling huge forkfuls of pasta and chicken into his mouth. There was something about the way he ate, an urgency that pricked at my nerves like he was worried it would be taken from him at any moment. I wondered if that was something from a shitty childhood or a habit he’d picked up in prison. Or maybe he was simply hungry after a long day at work.

“Can I ask you a question about prison?”

He paused midchew, lifting his eyes to mine. I thought he’d turn me down, but after a moment’s hesitation, he jerked his chin.

“How did they handle your allergy there? Were you able to eat what everyone else did or…?”

Swallowing hard, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “There are supposed to be procedures in place, but they don’t follow them. My first week on the inside, I went into anaphylaxis from contaminated food. Almost died because no one knew where they kept the EpiPen.”

“Shit.” My fingers tensed around my beer bottle. “I’m not surprised, but I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I won’t pretend it’s not scary as hell to feel my throat closing up, especially in a place where I had no autonomy. Couldn't carry my own EpiPen, no access to check ingredients in food, nothing. Just had to trust people who didn’t care if I lived or died.” He stabbed his pasta with his fork. “After that, they served me prepackaged food. It was terrible, but I didn’t have to worry about it killing me.”

My stomach dropped. “That’s awful. God, I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Some would say I deserved it. Part of my punishment.”

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