Page 21 of Loving You

His lips twitched, but then he let out a long sigh. “No. I told you to sit and eat because you looked like you were about to fall over, and I bet you haven’t had a home-cooked meal like that in a while.”

“You know I don’t cook.”

“I do. So, I’m curious, do you bring your takeout to the attic of the B&B, or do you eat all your meals in the kitchen downstairs?”

My fork clattered onto my plate, and I jumped, causing him to straighten from the counter with wide eyes.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. My cheeks felt warm from the embarrassment over my jumpiness, but he looked a little flushed, too. Almost like he hadn’t meant to say what he’d said. Or maybe because he hadn’t liked my reaction to it.

But he knew I was living in the attic? How?

Fuck. Rachel.

“What else do you know?” I whispered.

Slowly, he lowered his forearms and resumed his previous position. “I know something has you so freaked out you left your apartment and moved into what used to be a storage room, and now you’re staying with me—someone you don’t even like. That tells me whatever’s going on with you must be big, and I want to help. But to help, I have to know what I’m dealing with.”

I picked at my food, suddenly not hungry again. “Maybe I moved into the attic so I could be closer to work. You, of all people, should understand that. In fact, if you didn’t have so many important business papers in your office, I bet you’d stash a cot in there. Or a coffin, like Sammy said,Count Dickula.”

Eric didn’t so much as blink at my attempt to distract him with secondhand insults from his brother. “April. You didn’t move into the attic to be closer to work.”

I sighed. “You’re right. Unlikeyou,I know there’s more to life than work.”

“Not that you’re living it.”

Wow, okay, direct hit.

“Tell me what’s going on so I can help you,” he said, more gently than ever.

“So far you’ve been doing a pretty great job on the helping front without knowing the gory details,” I replied in a monotone voice, my stare never leaving the barely touched plate of food.

“Eat.”

My eyes met his again, but the indignation faded when I saw the concern all over his face.

Ugh, why not?

Did I need to fight him on this, too? I was already exhausted from fighting with my own thoughts, and all the man was trying to do was help me get some food in my body.

It probably wasn’t obvious to the outside observer, but I’d noticed my clothes fitting looser over the last couple of months. Something that would have thrilled me once upon a time, when all I wanted was to lose a dress size or two so things would be… easier. But losing weight because I was too wrapped up in fear and dread to feel like eating wasn’t my jam. In fact, it was a tad pathetic.

I gave in, loading my fork with baked potato and bringing it to my mouth. Relief filled me as I chewed.

It was a relief not to fight him.

No, it was more than a relief. It was a sense of being… unburdened. Something like what hikers probably felt when they reached the end of a trail and dropped their packs. I wouldn’t know from experience since I was anindoorcat, but my brain wasn’t functioning all the way, and it was the first thing that came to mind.

It was a sense of lightness, and maybe even the permission to feel light, which was new and way more satisfying than it should have been.

I was nearly finished with my meal when I realized he hadn’t spoken again since that final command to eat. He’d just stayed there, patiently waiting. It didn’t seem to matter whether I spoke or stayed quiet, as long as I was eating and I knew he was there.

Maybe he didn’t pity me.

Notyet,anyway. He surely would once I told him the story, and I wasn’t ready. For now, this was nice. So I finished the rest of my meal in the not-uncomfortablesilence, and he stayed right where he was—watching, waiting, not pressuring.

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet,” I finally said, eyes on my empty plate.

“That’s fine.”

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