“Okay, Pinocchio.”
“Sit down and eat. It’s just tomato and basil soup with ciabatta bread, which will be light on your stomach.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I say immediately. “I haven’t got time, and I feel sick anyway.”
“You feel sick because you appear not to have slept for a week.”
“I did have the crate of energy drinks to help me through.”
“Yes, and how grateful we all are to the manufacturers. You need proper food.” He smiles at me. It’s a kind smile that looksgood on his handsome face. “You’ll feel better with some decent food in your belly.”
I nod and slide into the chair he pulls out for me. The soup looks delicious. Steam floats delicately from it, and I smell herbs. My stomach rumbles. I pick up my spoon and hesitate.
Mac settles into the chair opposite me. “Oh dear, have you forgotten how to use cutlery, or did you never know how to use it in the first place?”
I snort. “No. I just wondered where your food was?”
“Mine?”
“Yes, aren’t we eating together?”
“Oh. No, this is just for you. I had a business dinner earlier in the evening.”
“Poor you. Aren’t the words business and dinner oxymorons?”
He chuckles, and I avoid staring at him, but it’s difficult because he’s seriously hot when he laughs. His whole face lights up, and he looks younger somehow and much more carefree.
“Eat,” he commands.
I do as I’m told, watching as he gets up and moves around the kitchen, taking off the apron and pouring me a glass of iced water and a scotch for himself from the expensive bottles in the cupboard. He settles back at the table, sipping his drink and reading something on his phone. His jaw is shadowed with an evening beard, and his shirt is open at the neck, showing a thin sliver of pale skin. It’s rather domestic, and I feel myself relaxing and enjoying the food. My worries drain away in his steady presence, and it comes as a surprise when my spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.
He looks up at the sound. “Finished?”
I nod.
“Was it good?”
“It was lovely. I ran out of the ingredients for my favourite meal a few days ago, so this was a nice change.”
“I know I will regret asking this, but what is your favourite food?”
“Cheese and baked bean toastie.”
“Goodgod,” he says in a revolted voice. “Do you actually eat that?”
“No. I make one and then look at it. Of course, I eat it. They’re delicious.”
He shudders.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“The last time someone said that to me, they were referencing foie gras. Suffice it to say I can now knock it.”
“Isn’t that goose?” He nods, and I grimace. “Poor geese. At least no animal died for my cheese and bean toastie.”
“No, but your digestive system is probably screaming for help.”
I laugh, pleased as ever to hear his humour. I tap the empty bowl. “Well, the soup was very nice. Did you make it?”
