Page 16 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
Oh no, not another food pusher. I’d just left one. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.” But it’d been hours since I’d stopped for lunch, and my stomach now gurgled.
Perfect timing.
Eyebrow raised, grinning, he said, “Sure you aren’t. You have to be tired and hungry. Come and I’ll make you food.”
“I don’t eat carbs,” I whispered. “I’m on a diet.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Carbs aren’t the devil, you know. But don’t worry, no carbs. My Italian mama wouldn’t be happy with me not having pasta, but we won’t have pasta, okay, baby? C’mon.”
Baby.
Manwhore like him probably called every girl baby.
He stood up, pulled the black tank top over his head, covering the view but showing off his tatted arms, and gestured for me to follow him to the kitchen. I obeyed. A turtle slowly made its way across the kitchen floor.
“Watch out for Tortellini.”
“I thought you said no pasta,” I said, confused.
“No, the turtle’s name is Tortellini. The other one is named Speedy, wherever he is.”
“Oh,” I said, and then I laughed.
He made me laugh so easily.
“Go. Sit there,” he ordered, and pointed to the kitchen table, still covered with newspapers and magazines. Including the porn.
I started stacking the magazines up by title and then putting them in date order. He glanced at me and quirked up an eyebrow.
“Leave that.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
The cover of the girlie magazine on top featured a woman wearing a trench coat—and only a trench coat. Plus stilettos. While she was covered, one long, slender leg peeked out as she stared down the camera behind a veil of blonde hair.
I only wish I had the confidence to pull that one off. Noticing what I was looking at, he raised his eyebrows and gave an unapologetic grin.
“She’s hot,” I said.
“Yep.” He handed me a glass of water and poured himself one. “Trench coat booty call. One of my fantasies.” After he took a long drink, and I watched how sinuously his throat moved, he opened up the refrigerator, bent over, and surfaced with vegetables and meat that was marinating in a plastic bag. “Salad and strip steak.” He held them up. “Yeah?”
I nodded.
I don’t know why I was nodding. I didn’t want him to feed me. I didn’t want him to do anything. I needed to do this on my own. I’d been a few days now without slipping. How was I going to record all of this? I needed control.
But he wasn’t going to give it to me.
