Page 9 of Screwing With The Scrooge

I grin, waving him inside, and he hesitates before he enters. He’s so tall and big that he takes up all of the room inside my house. I have to push past him just to wiggle out of my coat, and he clears his throat.

“I should go,” he starts, and I grab his hand.

“We’re eating, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything as I lead him into the kitchen, but I notice that when I let his hand go, his fingers flex, like maybe he misses me touching him.

Saffron would have swooned at that move. She’s made me watch Pride and Prejudice a dozen times and we always have to rewatch when Mr. Darcy helps Elizabeth into the carriage.

“Is chili okay?” I ask, taking out the Tupperware from the fridge.

“Sure, sounds good.”

I grab a pot and heat the chili up, grabbing cheese from the fridge and crackers out of the pantry.

“Have a seat,” I tell Xavier as I move to grab two spoons.

He winces as he takes a seat at my little dining table, and I pause.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, and he nods.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t look like it,” I comment as I grab the milk and two cups.

“It’s my hip. It always gets a little sore in the cold.”

“Want some Tylenol?” I offer him as I pass him a glass of milk.

He shakes his head, taking a sip.

“How about a bath? I could join you.”

He coughs, nearly spraying milk all over the table, and I grin.

“Is that a yes then?”

He clears his throat, and I smile as I head back to the now hot chili. I grab two bowls and ladle chili into each before I join him back at the table.

“You always surprise me,” he says quietly as I set a bowl in front of him.

“Is that a good thing?” I ask, and he stares at me for a beat.

“Yeah,” he finally admits, and my heart almost bursts in my chest.

“Good. Now, dig in while it’s still hot.”

He grabs his spoon, and I study him. He looks more relaxed today. His mask has slipped a bit and I can see that vulnerable side that he rarely lets anyone see. He doesn’t look as lonely or sad today either and I smile.

“How did you hurt your hip?” I ask, picking up our conversation from earlier.

“I was shot.”

“Shit.”

He doesn’t look up at me; just nods and I swallow.

“When you were deployed,” I guess, and that gets another nod. “Is that why you got out?”

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