Page 64 of Sweet Ruin

I pretend to frown. “Have you been spying on me?”

She laughs, then grabs a slotted spoon and starts to fish the fried doughnuts out of the oil. Each one gets dropped into the bowl of sugar, rolled over a few times until it’s well coated, then set on a pan.

She doesn’t mind a mess. Flour coats her fingers and forearms, and when she wipes her forehead with the back of one hand, it leaves a white streak of the stuff just below her hairline.

But it suits her.

There are a million women in this city who look good when dolled up and dressed to the nines. Give them access to Spanx, a Sephora, and some TikTok tutorials, and they can all pass for a Kardashian.

But there are much, much fewer who look good like this.

In their element.

Working.

Un-self-conscious.

She sets another sugared round on the pan and counts what’s left in the bowl. “That’s, what, a dozen?” she says. “Fourteen? I suck at math, but it’s definitely a lot for just the two of us. You’re a big guy, but… I mean, not that I need these. Big shocker, a woman who looks like me eating a doughnut at mid⁠—”

“Stop.”

She freezes. The bubbling oil is the last sound in the room.

“I was joking,” she says meekly.

“I know what you were doing. Don’t do it again.”

“Okay, wow. It’s a doughnut, not a⁠—”

“It isn’t about the fucking doughnut.” I stride around the cart into the good light so she has to look at me. “That’s the second time tonight you’ve made a joke like that. I won’t tolerate a third.”

She sets the spoon down on the rag carefully, eyes cast low.

“It’s a habit,” she mumbles. “It’s how I— People relax when I say it first.”

“Say what?” I ask. A note of menace has snuck into my voice.

Delilah hesitates, then sweeps a hand up and down her body. “The obvious. Just look at me.”

I grab her wrist and settle it back down by her side. Then, my fingers dusted with the flour from her skin, I touch under her chin and force her eyes to meet mine.

“I haven’t stopped looking all night,” I rasp. “I see you. I know what and who you are. You’re the one who seems blind to the ‘obvious.’“

She’s squirming, obviously uncomfortable, but the light pressure of my two fingers under her jaw is enough to pin her in place.

“So don’t make that joke again,” I finish. “Not in front of me.”

“You can’t just decide what comes out of my mouth,” she snaps.

“Watch me. In front of me, you don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Her squirming eases. Her eyes are curious now, liquid honey. But that self-hating crease in her forehead has vanished. For the time being, at least.

“You’ve known me for three hours,” she says.

“And in that whole time, I’ve never once thought what you’re afraid I’m thinking.”

She breathes out. Then she reaches into the bowl, picks up a doughnut, and takes a bite standing right where she is, sugar on her mouth, watching me the whole time like she’s daring me to comment.