Page 95 of Hunt Me, Daddy

“You are a deeply unsettling man.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I can feed myself.”

“Eventually, perhaps.”

“Ivan.”

“Kit.”

The tone was firm enough that my body heard it.

Traitor.

“I ordered food,” he said.

“Of course you did.”

“You can refuse to eat it.”

“How generous.”

“You can also refuse to work until I give you more of the Orlov file.”

“I’m absolutely doing that.”

“I know.”

Again, with that.

He moved to the kitchen area, which was less a kitchen and more a showroom for stainless steel appliances that had never knownthe joy of being splattered with soup. A paper bag sat on the counter. He opened it and removed two containers, setting one beside me without comment. I looked down. Grilled chicken, rice, roasted vegetables, and a little container of sauce on the side. Nothing too heavy or too greasy. It was exactly the type of food I would have ordered if I were pretending to be practical and responsible instead of surviving on coffee and spite. My stomach tightened.

“What?” he asked.

I looked up. “Nothing.”

“That is not nothing.”

“It’s food.”

“Yes.”

“It’s exactly what I would have ordered.”

“Yes.”

I leaned back. “How did you know?”

His gaze met mine and for a moment, I thought he might tell me. For a moment, I wanted him to.

Then he said, “I pay attention.”

With a sigh, I opened the container and picked up the fork because refusing to eat would have been childish, and also because my stomach had already decided dignity was less important than arguing about roasted vegetables. Ivan sat down beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him if I thought about it, which I immediately decided not to do. He opened the legitimate version of his Orlov investigation on thecenter monitor, and I knew it was legitimate because of what was missing.