Page 109 of Blades Out
I nodded at the right moments, smiled when he paused for effect, let the warmth of his energy wash over me like background noise.
But my mind kept drifting.
The waiter brought bread, and I tore off a piece mechanically, buttering it without tasting. Ben launched into another story—something about a disastrous first shift at the café involving an espresso machine malfunction—and I tried to focus on his face, the animated way his eyes lit up, the laugh lines that appeared when he grinned.
Then my eyes fluttered closed for just a second. And I was back in that hallway.
Rhys's hands circling my wrists. The cold wall against my back. The heat of his body caging me in, all controlled power and restrained violence. His mouth on mine like he was drowning, and I was air.
Heat flooded through me, sudden and unwelcome.
My eyes snapped open.
Ben was still talking, oblivious, gesturing with a breadstick for emphasis. I shifted in my seat, thighs pressing together, trying to shake the phantom sensation of Rhys's fingers tightening above my head.
The memory wouldn't leave.
Every time I blinked, it was there—his voice low and wrecked, the way he'd looked at me like touching me was both salvation and damnation. The desperate edge in his kiss, the restraint fracturing with every passing second until he'd torn himself away like it physically hurt.
My cheeks burned.
Ben's voice cut through the haze. "You okay?"
I jerked my attention back to him, pulse hammering. "What?"
He set down the breadstick, expression uncertain. "I'm not boring you, am I? I know I talk a lot when I'm nervous."
"No. God, no." Guilt twisted sharp in my chest. "You're not boring at all. I'm just—" I forced a smile, reaching for my water glass. "Tired. Long shift. I'm sorry."
His shoulders relaxed. "Don't apologize. I get it." That easy grin returned, warm and guileless. "We can take it slow. No pressure."
I nodded, throat tight.
Slow.
Right.
Because Ben was the kind of guy who meant that. Unlike the man I couldn't stop thinking about.
The waitress returned with our plates—steaming pasta, the scent of basil and garlic rising in a cloud that made my stomach clench with sudden hunger. I picked up my fork and twirled it through the fettuccine, bringing it to my lips without thinking.
The first bite hit my system like a revelation.
Rich. Warm. Real food I'd forgotten I needed.
I swallowed and realized with startling clarity that I hadn't eaten since the stale granola bar I'd choked down before my shift that morning. Fourteen hours ago. My body had been running on adrenaline and caffeine and the hollow ache of wanting things I couldn't have.
"Good, right?" Ben leaned forward, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched me take another bite.
"Really good," I admitted, the words muffled around pasta I should have chewed more thoroughly.
He laughed—bright and uncomplicated—and pushed the bread basket across the table toward me. "Eat. You look like you need it more than compliments."
Heat crept up my neck but I grabbed another piece anyway, grateful for something to do with my hands. For the excuse to look down at my plate instead of meeting his eyes.
Normal. This was normal.
A guy who noticed when I was hungry and cared enough to make sure I ate. Who laughed easily and told stories that didn't carry the weight of unspoken trauma. Who looked at me like I was someone worth taking to dinner, not someone he needed to avoid in hallways and flee from in parking lots.
