Page 64 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
Colin smiled faintly, I could see from the side, and then left the room. With a heave, I sat up and settled the pillows around Bailey. Then I went into the bathroom.
Oh, shit. That explained why Colin wasn’t looking at me. The left side of my face was…wrecked. It was all black, a little bit green, and my eye was puffy. Christ, it hurt more to look at me than it had last night. Maybe. I’d been pretty zoned out. He hadn’t hit me. More like the floor had hit me, slowly, in a long, painful punch that had pushed harder with each thrust from behind.
I’d be able to patch this up some—some ice and a heavy foundation job would do wonders. But for now I looked hideous. I fretted about whether to say something about it to Colin while I got ready, but when Bailey and I went downstairs, he’d already gone. Ugh, avoidance was contagious.
I puttered around the house, making breakfast and doing some chores, mostly waiting for lunchtime. My face was a half an hour project, so that was a nice distraction. In the right light I looked like someone who’d done a horrible job with her makeup. Looking like an idiot was preferable to looking hurt.
I packed up Bailey’s lunch in the kitchen. Hmm, dessert. I eyed the chocolate tart that I’d taken out of the fridge earlier. I did want some. Badly.
More importantly Colin might like it. He was freaked, justifiably, and possibly mad at me—also justifiably. It would be a peace offering, even if I’d initially made it for myself. I mean, if I gave it to him, he’d still share, wouldn’t he? Two birds with one stone and all that.
I wrapped the tart in plastic wrap and then bundled us into the car. It only took ten minutes to arrive at the restaurant, and then the unbundling process commenced. Finally Bailey and I sat at a table in the corner near the office hallway. I was debating whether to knock at the door when he emerged.
“You came,” he said, sounding surprised. That gave me pause. Did he think me so unreliable? Or worse, did he think our relationship was irreparable after last night? Please, no.
“Of course,” I said. “And I brought a cake. You do like chocolate?”
“You made it?”
“Yes…did you notice the bowls and pots covered in black goo in the kitchen?”
He considered. “No.”
“Okay, that’s…disturbing. But yes, I made it. Do you have a fridge or something where it can sit?”
“Sure.” He took the tart from me and disappeared into the kitchen. I returned to Bailey and pulled out her lunch. I hadn’t been sure what they’d have here for her, so I’d packed the full complement—pasta, mixed veggies, and milk to drink. We hadn’t had much opportunity for eating out, but we’d been here before, at least. Bailey took to her restaurant high chair with aplomb. It was the eating part she struggled with. In minutes the floor around her was littered with lunch. So much for planning.
Colin returned and took a seat across from me. “I ordered for us already. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.” I smiled, fishing for one from him. “I bet you know what’s best here, don’t you?”
He gave a short nod. He looked out the window, at the table, at Bailey crunching carrots—anywhere but my face.
I sighed. “Is it that bad?”
“Is what bad?” he said.
“My face.”
He looked at me, and then away. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Yes.”
Well, damn.
Our food came shortly. I suppose since he owned the place, he’d better get prompt service. So we busied ourselves with eating. When we were done, I offered to go back and find the tart, but he went into the back himself. I liked the way the employees looked at him, both with respect and a sort of affection that I recognized in my dealings with Rick. It was a contrast to the formality he’d been dealt at Philip’s house.
He returned and, for the first time that day, looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
Crap, it’d probably ended up sitting on a lukewarm burner and melted or something. “It’s ruined?”
“Sort of. I put it in the back, and my manager thought it was available. He moved it to the front case.” He paused. “It’s gone.”
“Wait, like sold?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Well.” So much for my apology cake. “That’s okay, I guess. At least someone enjoyed it.”
“Several someones,” he said. There was a note in his voice. Pride? “At eight dollars a slice and ten slices, your cake was eighty bucks.”
