Page 73 of Bite Me

“Nothing, boss. Nothing at all.”

I finish my drink without fuss, silently resisting the urge to tear Luther’s throat out.

“All right, show ’em.” Luther taps the table.

“Royal flush.” I place my cards on the table. “I’ll have the estate contact you for the paperwork for your cars.”

Darien is the only one still smiling when I turn to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Emma

“What is this?”

Dacre sets a plate in front of me as I’m prepping my station for the day. It’s a ham and cheese croissant, but it looks different from the ones we make in the morning.

“It’s brunch.” He looks otherwise uninterested in what I’m doing.

“I already ate.”

“Cereal isn’t breakfast.”

The hollowness in my stomach makes it hard to protest, and I take a bite.

Oh, this is cruel. It’s really, really good.

I chew while watching him ready his station and clean what must have been his project for the morning. He’s making me eat breakfast. I’m still unsure of where we stand, and my sleepless nights of imagining our evening in the kitchen together are not helping.

“You feel okay?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yeah, why?”

“Your scent . . . smells off.”

Off? I let the question drop because the longer I talk to him, the more I’m opening myself up to his sarcasm, and I’m not in the mood.

“I’ve got work to do. Thank you for the sandwich.”

There’s satisfaction in walking away from him this time. I guess I trust him. There haven’t been any university newspaper articles fluttering around about us. Still, it’s not as if I expect him to cuddle me or anything. If we’re scent-matches, then all he cared about was getting my blood.

Well, that’s what I thought until he brought me my favorite breakfast because he saw I wasn’t eating enough. I need some time to process this. Thankfully, today we’re learning about butchering, and I need to be focused.

The doors open, and Dacre’s grandfather strolls in, making a beeline for my station. I glance behind me to see if he’s really looking at me.

“Ms. Osborne, would you please accompany me into my office?”

“Yes . . . Chef,” I stutter. He is a chef, or he was at one time. Does he still want to be called one?

Dacre catches my eyeline seconds before I exit the lounge for Clyde Everhart’s office.

The leather squeaks when I sit across from him, and I can’t stop staring at the curl of his mustache. There’s little resemblance between him and Dacre, but they have a similar aura about them.

“You’re Edwin’s daughter.”

I feel the joy leak from my face, but I hold it together. Of course this conversation is happening because of my father. It’s always because of my family in some way. It’s never about my own talent.

“Yes.”