Page 56 of There Are No Saints

“She’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “And that includes my stepfather. I ran away the day I turned eighteen.”

“Where’s your actual father?”

“Dead.”

“So is mine,” Cole says. “I find it’s better that way.”

I look at him sharply, wondering if that’s supposed to be a joke.

“I loved my father,” I say coldly. “The day I lost him was the worst day of my life.”

Cole smiles. “The worst day so far.”

What. The. Fuck.

“So Daddy died, leaving you alone with Mommy dearest and not a penny between you,” Cole prods me, wrinkling his nose like he can still smell those awful years on my skin.

“There’s worse things than being poor,” I inform him. “There was a period of time when I had my hair brushed, a clean uniform, I went to a private school with a lunch packed every day. It was hell.”

“Enlighten me,” Cole says, one dark eyebrow raised.

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not a sideshow for your amusement.”

“Why are you so combative?” he says. “Have you ever tried cooperating?”

“In my experience, when men say ‘cooperative,’ they mean ‘obedient.’ ”

He grins. “Then have you ever tried being obedient?”

“Never.”

That’s a lie. I have tried it. All I learned is that no amount of submission is good enough for a man. You can roll over, show your belly, beg for mercy, and they’ll just keep hitting you. Because the very act of breathing is rebellious in the eyes of an angry male.

Cole’s dark eyes rove over my face, giving me the uncomfortable sensation that he can see every thought I’d prefer to keep hidden.

Thankfully, I’m saved by Arthur depositing several platters of steaming food in front of us.

“All the greatest hits,” he says, grinning broadly.

“Looks phenomenal,” Cole says, turning on the charm with the flick of a switch.

Only after Arthur leaves us does Cole examine the food with his usual critical glare.

“What is this?” he demands.

“That’s the bacon sampler platter,” I say, nodding toward four marinated strips of premium pork belly labeled with fancy script like each is a guest at a wedding.

Cole frowns. “It looks . . . intense.”

“It’s the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. Look,” I cut off a bite of the rosemary balsamic bacon. “Try this one first.”

Cole takes a bite. He chews slowly, his expression melting from skepticism into genuine surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“I told you—try this one now. Brown sugar cinnamon.”

He takes a bite of the second strip, eyebrows rising and an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth.

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