Page 61 of His To Unravel
Reluctantly, I pull back and guide her to the dining table, unwilling to let the moment pass without indulging her in something more tangible.
“Sit,” I instruct gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Breakfast is ready.”
Her eyes light up as I set a stack of French toast in front of her, golden and dusted with powdered sugar, the faint sheen of syrup catching the light. The corners of her mouth curve into a smile, and the sight fillsme with pride.
“French toast?” she asks with childlike delight.
I nod in acknowledgement, sitting across from her as she picks up her fork. Watching her take that first bite is as satisfying as crafting the dish itself. She hums softly, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the taste registers.
“This is incredible,” she says, her voice laced with genuine admiration. “You’ve yet to make me a bad meal.”
Her compliment sends a warm thrum of satisfaction through me, though I school my expression to something more casual. “I intend to keep that streak alive,” I reply smoothly, leaning back in my chair to study her.
“Do you like to cook?” I ask, deliberately light.
She pauses, her fork hovering midair as she considers my question. “I don’t know if I’d say Ilikeit,” she admits, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Growing up, cooking always felt more like a chore than something to enjoy. My family runs a diner, so there was always something that needed to be prepped or made. And when my parents were busy at the diner, it was my job to cook for my brothers.”
Her voice softens, tinged with something I can’t quite place—nostalgia, maybe, or something heavier.
“But,” she adds, looking up at me with an expression so sincere it makes my heart stutter, “it’s nice to be the one taken care of for once. Thank you.”
Her gratitude is like a balm, softening the blunting edge of anger that flares at the notion of a young Olivia, being deprived of a carefree childhood. My smile comes easily, but inside, my thoughts burn.
They worked her so hard. And still, they have the audacity to ask for more. I bite back the words, keeping them buried beneath a composed exterior. This isn’t the moment to address what I will eventually rectify.
Just then, her phone buzzes, interrupting the delicate intimacy of the moment. Her gaze flicks to the screen, and I force my expression to remain neutral.
She picks it up, finger swiping over the screen as her eyes scan the incoming messages. I watch her closely, noting the slight furrow in her brow, the way her shoulders seem to sink just a fraction lower. By the time she sets the phone back down, her mood has shifted. The lightness in her has dimmed, replaced by a quiet resignation.
“Everything all right?” I ask, my voice carefully measured.
She looks up, her lips curving into a rueful smile. “Yeah,” she says, too quickly. “Just some things back home.”
I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, my thumb brushing over her knuckles.
Her smile wavers, but she doesn’t pull away. “I’m fine, really,” she replies, even though her tone suggests otherwise. “I’d really much rather talk about anything else.”
I nod, letting the edge of concern slip from my expression, masking the sharp focus still slicing through my thoughts. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I will give her that. For now.
“All right,” I say, my tone warm, casual—a veneer of ease carefully layered over my true intent. “Then tell me something lighter. What are your plans for winter break?”
The question lands exactly as I intended, a shift rippling through her.
Her shoulders tense, and she seems to deflate just a little further, her fingers curling tighter around the fork in her hand. Her eyes dart down to the plate in front of her, and the effort it takes to put on a brave face is painfully obvious.
“Oh, nothing too exciting,” she says lightly, though her tone is just a touch too bright. “I’ll go home. My parents could use theextra help, and the boys—my brothers—always need someone to keep them on track.”
She punctuates her words with a small smile, but it’s paper-thin and doesn’t reach her eyes.
I tilt my head, watching her with what I hope comes across as idle curiosity, though inside, a darker satisfaction coils tightly. She is unraveling, just as I knew she would.
“That sounds…busy,” I say, careful to keep the edge of judgment out of my voice. “Are you looking forward to it?”
She hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough.
“Of course,” she replies too quickly. “I mean, it’s important to be there for them, right? My parents work so hard, and the boys…” She trails off, biting her lip before continuing. “They count on me.”
Her words are rehearsed, the kind of response she’s probably given herself a dozen times before. But I don’t miss the tinge of resignation that laces her tone, the way she avoids meeting my gaze as though doing so might shatter the illusion she’s trying to maintain.
