RUSH (City Lights, #3)(35)

She stopped and I could practically feel her gaze on me—feathery light and sweet.

“You’re hungry? I was going to make eggs and bacon. Would you like some?”

I did. The part of me that still gave a shit wanted to have breakfast with her. The part of me that loathed what I had become, that recoiled with humiliation for how the smallest of tasks were potential disasters waiting to happen, wanted to slink back to the room, alone. But she wasn’t some fool Lucien hired who’d be gone in a week. Maybe I could eat in front of her like the fumbling klutz I was and it would be okay.

Maybe.

Man up, *, I told myself. You’re hungry? So eat. Fork, food, mouth. It’s not f*cking rocket science.

“Yeah, okay.”

A smile colored her words. “Great! Just give me a minute.”

I listened to her rustle around in the kitchen, heard a pan hiss, and eggs crack. Then she set a place for me on the counter.

“Um, fork is on your left. Spoon and knife on your right—”

“I remember how silverware is set.”

“Okay,” Charlotte said and I could practically hear her roll her eyes at me. Another few minutes or so of not uncomfortable silence, and a plate was set in front of me. “Here you go.”

I could feel the heat of the food and its scents wafting up to me. My stomach growled, and had I been alone, I would have just dug in, using my fingers and fork in equal measure, shoveling food in without a shred of manners. Or dignity.

But now that the big moment of eating in front of someone else had arrived, I froze up.

“Coffee?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes. Black.”

“And orange juice?”

“Sure.”

I heard the thud of a ceramic mug on the counter, then the clink of glass.

“Coffee is on your right. Juice on your left.”

I didn’t move.

“Noah?”

“I don’t eat in front of people.”

“I noticed. Why not?”

My lip curled automatically, a reflex whenever I was reminded of my own ridiculousness. Which was often.

“Why do you think? I’m worse than a f*cking toddler. I have to use my fingers to find the damn food, I knock shit over, and it feels like I’m being stared at. Not that I would know.”

“Okay.”

I heard her setting another plate next to me on the counter. Charlotte came around and pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. Not across, but side by side.

“Eggs are on the left side of your plate, bacon on the right, and a crescent roll at the top. I don’t care if you have to use your fingers, and if you spill something, I’ll clean it up. No big deal.”

No big deal. The way she said it, I could almost believe her.

“Noah.” Her voice was gentle but firm, too. “It’ll get cold.”

I took up my fork and started to eat. Slowly. Mindful that I wasn’t alone for the first time in four months.

The food was simple; nothing fancy or professional about it, but it was the best breakfast I had eaten in what felt like years. An ache clenched my heart so hard I nearly gasped. Companionship. Someone in my space, touching me, talking to me, just sitting next to me and sharing a meal, as if I were whole.

But I wasn’t.

I reached for the orange juice and nearly knocked the damn glass over, catching it just in time. A splatter hit my wrist, but I thought that was the extent of the damage.

“Nice save.” Charlotte put a napkin in my hand.

“It’s not the stuff of miracles.” I wiped off my hand and tossed the napkin down. “That’s twice in one morning. Ridiculous.”

“You’re just out of practice,” Charlotte said. “And it doesn’t help that this house isn’t set up for you. Not really. The furniture is all in your way, and a glass coffee table? With sharp corners?”

I could imagine her shaking her head in disapproval.

“Not to mention, every single drinking glass in these cabinets is tall and skinny, or some sort of fragile crystal-ware I’m afraid of breaking. You need some of those short, fat little glasses that can take more than a little finger bump to knock over.”

I was at a loss. I’d been nothing but a complete jackass to her but she didn’t give up. And while some part of my shriveled little black heart warmed at her consideration, I couldn’t fathom why she was wasting her time on me.

“Why are you here?” I demanded, my head cocked to my left, where she sat.

She froze in whatever it was she was doing. “I work here.” Her words came out tinged with hurt.

“I meant, why the hell are you working for me and not playing for some symphony orchestra somewhere?”

“Oh.” I heard her pause, thinking, and then take up her finished dishes. Her voice moved around, and then in front of me as she put them in the sink. “I told you, I’m taking a break.”

“Are you afraid you’re no good?”

“No,” she said faintly. “They called me a prodigy, once upon a time.”

I loved her honesty. No bragging, just the facts, and she had the talent to back it up. I would know; I heard proof every day between three and five. But the pain in those words…as if she were speaking of her talent in the past tense.

“So why not audition?”