Free Wicked Bad Boys by Bella Love-Wins Page B

brain for a convenient segway for him to talk about our earlier meeting. The fall must have really done some damage, because my head feels fuzzy and lethargic. I try to stand, but become painfully aware that the room is rotating slightly, before the fog in my head slowly clears again. I face the facts—I’m exhausted, weak and Jonathan is probably right to stick around, in case I pass out again. I flop down on the couch. I can’t help but feel defeated, and resentful that I have to depend on another human being.
    He comes back with bags of takeout. The smell is heavenly. It curls around my nose and tells my brain it’s time for no holds barred, stretchy waistband styled eating. He lays the food out on my kitchen table, and searches my cupboards for flatware like he owns the place. I’m about to tell him where things are, but he finds two plates, two glasses and eventually, some cutlery.
    “Okay, Rebecca. Food’s ready,” he announces. “Get over here and eat.”
    I’m a little nervous to stand up. I almost fainted just now, and if he sees how weak I am, he’ll probably insist on a hospital visit. The man must read minds. He must, because he walks over to me and holds a hand out.
    “I saw how you ate that energy bar. There’s no chance I’m letting you eat where I have to sleep tonight.”
    All I could come up with was, “You’ve got an interesting way of showing kindness, Jonathan.”
    “You’re welcome. Now take my hand so I can help you to the kitchen. Do you think I can’t tell you’re dizzy? I’ve spent years around some of the toughest fighters. I know what a mild concussion looks like. I’m not taking any chances with you.”
    I give up on resisting his offer. He’s seen my attempts to put on a brave face. He knows I’m hurt. I rest my hand on his forearm, which he takes as the signal to wrap his other arm around my shoulder to hold me up securely for the walk to the kitchen. I’m dwarfed beside him, and again, my body has a mind of its own. I melt into his side, allowing my weak frame to rest on his strong chest. As I’m pressed up on him, I smell his cologne again. It’s more potent and more addictive than when we were in Long Island—but just as dangerous.
    We sit to eat. The food is divine—everything I put in my mouth tastes better than the last bite. After his comment about how I ate the protein bar, I’m taking my time, doing my best not to wolf down whole boxes. I’m famished, so it’s hard. It takes all my energy not to close my eyes and moan with pleasure from every morsel.
    I could just be extremely hungry, but that’s’ not it. He’s ordered from le Chinois. It’s the top-rated, authentic Chinese restaurant in midtown. Before this job, while I articled with Barnaby, I could only dream of having a meal there once or twice a year.
    “I see you have good taste in restaurants,” I tell him, trying to break the ice with a compliment.
    “Yes, and I see I’ve met my perfect dinner companion,” he answers.
    “How’s that?”
    “I get so tired of women who eat those dainty little servings, or plates full of garden salads. Going out with the guys is not always my kind of thing, but I could get use to eating with you.”
    I hesitate. I’m not sure how to take it. Again, he reads my mind.
    “Relax. It’s a compliment. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
    I decide I need to work on my poker face, then launch into my subtle questioning. It’s not direct, and does not specifically ask about the night Rushton’s niece is murdered. All I’m doing is getting a sense of his routine, how close he is to his father and the rest of his family, how wide a social circle he has. It’s the basics.
    So far he’s open, but I assume he knows exactly why I’m asking. The man is a Harvard graduate and a VP at Fairchild. I’m putting myself at a disadvantage if I assume he’s not as sharp as a whip. I don’t push too hard. I’m building trust, and too much pressure will make him clam up.