Knight (Unfinished Hero #1)(28)

Then he said gently, “Then I better let my baby eat.”

“That’d be good,” I replied quietly. “But can we do it without talking? Most the time you talk, it freaks me out.”

It was then his eyes lit with humor close up and that was even better.

“Works for me,” he muttered then, “You cut into that steak and taste it, you won’t be talkin’ anyway. You’ll be shoveling more in.”

“Can’t wait,” I whispered, his eyes dropped to my mouth and darkened.

Okay, that was the best.

Then his eyes came back, his hand gave my neck a squeeze and he released me.

He turned back to his plate. I followed suit. He started eating. After a gulp of wine that almost choked me, I resumed.

About five seconds later I found he was right about the steak.

Melt in your mouth.

Perfect.

Chapter Six

Something Calm and Nourishing

My eyes opened slowly and I had no clue where I was. I just knew I was supremely comfortable and warm.

Then I saw them. Floor to ceiling windows and the lights of Denver twinkling.

I was on the slouchy, comfortable, gray suede couch in Knight’s whatever room, the one at the end of the hall where he kept his TV and clearly where he did his normal, average, everyday living (if he did that). It was decorated in shades of gray from dove to charcoal but it was far less stylized, decked out for comfort not visual impact. And it was where he led me to wait it out when he got called away for some business he didn’t exactly explain to me.

I saw the enormous plasma TV mounted on the wall was blue screen which meant the DVD Knight loaded for me was done. I’d missed it. With a sleepless night, I’d zonked out.

But I’d done it without the soft, woolen throw on me.

Knight was home and he’d thrown a soft, woolen blanket over me to keep me warm.

Okay, right.

Um…

Crap.

I took in a deep breath, stayed stretched out warm and comfortable on his couch and allowed my mind to sift through our post-lunch activities which were what led me to agree to hang while he saw to what he needed to see to in order for me to be there when he returned.

He had, as agreed, not talked while we ate. He had also provided me with an amazing lunch. It wasn’t just the steak which was, incidentally, by far and away the best piece of meat I’d ever tasted. The baked potato was delicious too. The skin was crunchy and somehow flavored in spices, garlic, Italian herbs, and the inside was fluffy with just the right amount of seasoning, butter and sour cream. It was simple, filling and yummy.

When we’d finished, he’d broken the seal on speaking to tell me to “keep your ass on the stool”. I did this while he picked up our plates, carried them to the sink and casually dropped the cool-as-heck crockery in with a clatter. He left them there without rinsing and moved to refill my wineglass.

Then he’d sauntered out of the kitchen, disappearing around the wall only to return within moments with a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter in his hand. He came direct to me, tagged my wineglass, handed it to me then took my other hand. Gently, he tugged me off my stool and moved toward the doors to the balcony, not going down the steps to the sunken portion but guiding me around the edge.

Even in bare feet and just a tee in the mid-March Colorado chilly air, he walked out, taking me with him. He let me go to shake out a cigarette and light it with flicks and twists of his Zippo. I was not a smoker but, call me crazy, I’d always thought Zippos were cool. Then he dropped the pack and the lighter on the wrought iron table, wrapped his fingers around my elbow and positioned me at the balcony railing.

Then I held my breath as he positioned himself behind me and wrapped an arm around my chest, pulling me back into his front side.

Then he lifted his cigarette and took a drag. I lifted my wine and took a sip.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” I advised after I swallowed.

“Heard that before,” he muttered.

“I bet you have,” I muttered back.

“It bother you?” he asked and I thought about this.

Even though I was a lifelong non-smoker, it didn’t. It was whacked but it reminded me of home. My Dad smoked. So did my aunt. I was used to the smell. As far as my Dad was concerned, it made me nostalgic. As far as my aunt was concerned, it was just the way it was. It was home. Both of them that I had growing up.

“No,” I answered softly but honestly. “It reminds me of home.”

“Your folks smoke?”

“Yeah, my Dad. Then my aunt. She was a chimney. Pack and a half a day.”

I felt his body tense and he asked, “Your aunt?”

“She raised me after my parents died.”

He was silent a moment, the tenseness increasing then his arm loosened around my chest only for his hand to shift me. He shifted too, resting a hip against the railing then his arm around my waist pulled me close to his front, almost touching, as he looked down at me.

“Your folks passed?” he asked quietly, his eyes intent but his face back to blank.

“Yeah, when I was in second grade.”

His eyes slightly narrowed. “Both of them?”

“Carjacking.”

No blankness then. A flash lit his eyes and I heard him draw in a sharp breath.

Then he whispered, “What the f**k?”