Page 72 of Last Man Standing

He sees the phone in my hand, but not his girlfriend’s constant messages. He sees my eyes following his progress across the room, but not the tumble of my stomach the nearer he comes.

He sees my totally faked indifference, but not the slick of nausea in my belly and the threat of my stolen protein bar surging straight back up the way it went down long before it has a chance to stifle the pangs of hunger I could no longer ignore.

Striding all the way to the foot of the bed, he looks me up and down and says nothing of the dark smudge of mud smeared along his jaw.

Did he fall over?

“Asked around,” he rumbles, setting the tray by my feet. “No one can say for sure they’ve seen you anywhere near the chow hall. Probably means you’re starving.” He snags a bottle of water from his back pocket and tosses it onto the bed beside the tray. “Here.”

Curious, I lock the phone screen and ignore Arabella’s text.

If you’re not with her, I want someone else there. Inside the room. At all times. No exceptions, Sebastion.

I push off the headboard and cross my legs, purely so I can study his offerings and compare them to the trays typically delivered in hospital wards. He brought me a juice box, a bag of potato chips, a bright green apple, and, right beside it, a banana without a single speck of brown marring the exterior. A plate sits in the middle of the tray, covered with a silver lid to keep the heat in, so I don’t get to see what’s beneath, but the scent of mashed potatoes and gravy infiltrates my lungs anyway. And maybe… lamb?

My stomach jumps with a ferocious hunger I’m not sure I’ve felt in a long, long time, and as I cast my eyes to the window I sat in for hours upon hours today, I spy darkness outside, although I can’t be entirely sure I noticed the sun had lost its battle with the horizon.

On a meager two or three hours of sleep, Sebastion worked all day long, and now he’s serving me food, because I’m too fucking scared to venture into the halls my damn self.

Swallowing the sticky lump of nerves settled in my throat, I bring my attention back to my tray and select a small bread roll and the bottle of water. “Thank you.”

“Eat it all.” He bends at the hips and unlaces his boots, toeing each one off with a grunt, then bending again to peel his socks off. “Chips and fruit are for dessert. Eat the meat so I know you’ve got something in your belly.”

I’m too hungry to be proud. Too desperate to be stubborn. So I nibble on the bread and crack the water open so I have something to drink that isn’t caffeine. Pinching the edge of the tray between my fingers and dragging it closer, I carefully sit back again. “Did you eat yet?”

“Yeah.” He peels his shirt up and exposes a sweat-glistened chest. “I sat in the chow hall and filled up. Now I’m bringing food to you.”

I check the time on the phone—19:08—and understand precisely why Serena’s texts stopped arriving at just after six. Because Sebastion arrived. And now he’s here… sweaty and not as mean as usual. Come on, Scarlett. Don’t be so naïve. Idiot. “Thank you,” I repeat. Because what the hell else am I supposed to say? Did you wash your hands before handling my food? “I talked to Lincoln this morning.”

“Yeah?” He slings his sweaty shirt over his shoulder and goes to work on his belt, tugging the leather through each loop. “Any updates?”

“Only that he’s still working on it.” I lift the silver tray lid and discover exactly what my nose already knew. Stacked chunks of baked lamb, a glob of mashed potato almost as large as my face, a pile of vegetables, mostly green and orange, and enough gravy drowning it all that the brown liquid spills over the edge of the plate and onto the cutlery he was mindful enough to bring to me. “He’s pretty sure that guy, Jones, isn’t who we’re looking for. He’s just a douchebag.”

“That’s what I figured, too.” He drops his belt to the floor with a noisy clatter, then setting a knee on the bed, he crawls forward, peruses my dinner, and snags a massive chunk of lamb. Pulling back with a grin, he tosses it into his mouth. “Thanks.” Standing again, he turns on his heels and licks the gravy from his fingers on his way toward the bathroom. “Jones appears to be a big-mouthed nobody who misses his bum-buddy, Roy. He’s mad at you the way most losers get mad when their good-for-nothing buddies score themselves a girlfriend and act better than they actually are for the first couple of months. Gotta trick her into thinking he’s a productive member of society instead of the basement-dwelling, unemployable bum he actually is. All that time spent wooing the girlfriend is cutting into their twenty-two hours a day PlayStation and circle-jerk time, so the single buddy gets pissy about it like it’s the woman’s fault.” He stalks into the bathroom and flips the shower taps on.

It’s only polite to wash Serena off before he drags me into his bed without my permission.

“Does Linc have someone else in mind?” Sebastion’s voice echoes from tile to tile, bouncing back into the room so it reaches my ears louder than necessary, then he stops in the doorway, naked but for the crisp white towel tucked low on his hips.

His grin taunts my peripherals. His biceps bulge as he draws my focus higher. “My eyes are up here, Princess. I asked you a question.”

Narrowing my glare, I cover my humiliation with anger. “Why the hell are you even standing there in a towel?”

“Cause I’m about to hop into the shower, but I’m not done talking to you.” His lips curl higher. “Or looking at you. I’ve been with ugly grunts all damn day, so now I’m getting my dopamine hit the right way. It’s science. Need me to repeat my question, or…?”

“No!” I snatch up my fork and stab it into the pile of lamb. “I don’t know who else Linc has in mind, but he said he and Nova have been talking to some people. You often work eleven-hour shifts in the cold like you did today?”

“Nope.” He releases his towel and turns just in time to rob me of seeing anything more than a tattooed thigh and the tiniest glimpse of his ass. “I usually work longer hours in worse weather.” The constant spray of water changes rhythm as he steps into the shower. “But I have a guest now, so I cut drills short for today.” He pauses for a beat, then adds with a smile in his voice, “My men thank you.”

My stomach growls for attention and reminds me to bring my fork closer so I can angry-chew a hunk of lamb. Anything to take my mind off Sebastion friggin’ Jameson when he’s naked.

It doesn’t matter that he’s, objectively, devastatingly handsome. Or that he’s the epitome of strength and virility. Because beneath all the noise and bravado is still the guy who gets off on annoying me, since brooding silence is way less fun than my argumentative clap-backs, and then he gets off, literally, with Serena in the half an hour between dinner and bringing me food.

“Scarlett?” he sing-songs. “Princess. Can you come here a sec? I need my dick sucked, and since I brought you food…”

Exasperated, I slam my fork back onto my plate and snatch up my phone. If it’s a little past seven, and dinner was served at six, then hopefully that means most men have eaten and cleared out already. If I’m really lucky, Arabella already ate and went somewhere else, too.

“Scarlett?” Sebastion barks out a bouncing laugh. “Babe! I was kidding. Come to the door and talk to me. I forgot how much I dislike watching men exercise for eleven hours straight. I need to see something pretty or my balls might fall off.”