“Have you eaten dinner?” he asked, the moment I opened the door. He looked good enough to eat himself. He was so big, his head almost touching the top of the door frame even in his bare feet. Tonight he was wearing a pair of what was apparently a collection of soft faded jeans and an old Mets T-shirt.

“No,” I told him as I clutched the doorjamb like a lifeline and pretended not to notice his eyes were fixed right on the slice of skin between the hem of my cropped sweater and the waist of my shorts. I didn’t ask him to stop and he didn’t look away. Inspecting, like he was cataloguing every visible part to make sure nothing had been disturbed in the hours he hadn’t seen me.

“Let me feed you then.” I knew he wasn’t offering to actually feed me with his hands, but I still shivered at his words. I needed to get a fucking grip.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen!” I said a little too loudly, standing awkwardly by the bed while his eyes raked over my body. His arms tight against his chest while he looked and looked.

“All right.” From under hooded lids I caught a glimpse of gray eyes, which crackled like lightning. “I’ll be waiting, Alba.”

Yeah...this “keep things impersonal” plan was working just great.

“What’s this?” I squeaked out, pointing at the two plates on the coffee table. There were two cushions side by side on the rug and he’d lit all the candles. It was atmospheric as hell and this meal had just become an endurance challenge.

“I thought we could watch something,” he said, as he uncorked a bottle. I stared at the food like it was going to jump off the plate and grab my face.

“Sit,” he ordered as he passed me my glass and lowered himself down, but my knees didn’t budge.

“They’re going to get cold,” he grumbled through a mouthful of taco. Seeing him wolfing down food like a regular human put me a little bit more at ease.

“Damn, you’re so freaking pushy,” I protested, sinking down next to him. He scoffed or maybe some taco went down the wrong pipe. It was hard to know with how much food he was shoveling down this throat. “Also, rude. Isn’t the chef supposed to eat after the guests?”

“The chef does whatever the fuck he wants,” he informed me after washing down a mouthful with some beer. It was so annoying how hot I found his rude ass. “Eat, and if you don’t stop putting your ass in my face, one of these days I’m going to take a bite out of it.” I almost dropped my damn tacos.