Page 79 of Her Name in Red
About thirty minutes in, there's a sharp knock at my door. Riggs' head whips around, his entire body tensing like a guard dog on alert.
“Who the fuck is coming here this late?” he mutters, already pushing himself off the couch. He moves toward the door with a predatory grace, checking the peephole before turning back to glare at me. “You expecting someone?”
I just smile sweetly and shrug, enjoying the irritation flickering across his face.
“Because it sure as hell ain't me,” he continues, hand resting on the doorknob. “And I'm the only one who should be here this late.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Says who?”
He opens the door with more force than necessary, blocking my view with his broad shoulders. I can hear a muffled exchange before Riggs takes something from the delivery guy and practically slams the door shut.
He turns around, holding two plastic bags that smell like heaven, his expression caught between confusion and annoyance.
“What the hell is this?” He lifts the bags slightly.
I press pause on the remote. “Food. For your loud, angry stomach.” I gesture toward the coffee table. “Now shut the fuck up and eat.”
Riggs sets the bags down but remains standing, looking at me with that stubborn set to his jaw that I've come to recognize all too well.
“I could have ordered the food,” he says, reaching for his back pocket where I know he keeps his wallet. “I should have ordered.”
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. “Please spare me some manly, masculine bullshit about you needing to be the one to pay for food.”
He pulls out his wallet anyway, flipping it open. “At least let me?—”
“Don't even try to give me money,” I cut him off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I'll gut you and stick it in your intestines.”
His eyes darken at the threat, but his lips curl into a slow smile. “Always so violent.” He tucks his wallet away and finally sits back down, closer this time. “I like it.”
Riggs tears open the first container, the smell filling my apartment.
“Your usual,” he says, sliding it toward me.
“I'm not hungry,” I lie, even as my stomach tightens at the aroma.
He snorts, spearing a piece of meat with his fork. “You're always hungry. You just forget to eat.”
“I don't need a babysitter.”
“No, you need a chef.” He lifts the fork to my mouth, his eyes challenging. “Open.”
“I'm not a fucking child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” The fork hovers, waiting. “Eat something, Maren.”
I stare him down, but my resolve crumbles when my stomach betrays me with a growl. I part my lips just enough for him to slide the fork in, the spicy sweetness exploding on my tongue.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice.
I swallow and flip him off. “Don't push it.”
He smirks, loading up another forkful. We settle into a rhythm—him alternating between feeding himself and me as the show continues. The woman on screen is sobbing through her police interrogation, claiming she had nothing to do with her husband's mysterious illness.
“Bullshit,” Riggs and I say in perfect unison, then exchange surprised glances.
“She's overplaying it,” I say, accepting another bite from him. “Real grief doesn't look like that.”
“No,” he agrees, his eyes never leaving my face. “Real grief is quieter. More...hollow.”
