Page 49 of It Hurts Me

He came out moments later in his black sweatpants. “Let’s go.”

I assumed we weren’t going out to breakfast because of the way he was dressed, so we must be eating in his dining room. I grabbed my bag so I wouldn’t have to double back for it. When I looked at my phone, I had no missed texts or calls.

In the hallway, he took the bag off my shoulder and carried it for me.

His dining room was a big space with high ceilings and open windows. It was beautiful, a long table that could accommodate twenty guests even though he seemed like someone who rarely had company.

He sat at the head of the table.

I set my bag in the seat beside me and sat down.

George already had a pot of coffee on the table along with cream and sugar, so we each had a cup. Theo took it black like his eyes, and I drenched mine in cream. Then George brought out breakfast, an egg-white omelet and strips of bacon for Theo, while I had a plate of pancakes and a savory crêpe topped with ratatouille.

We ate in silence.

“So, when do you have a second breakfast?”

“This is second breakfast.” He ate with his arms on the table. “I have a shake while I work out.”

“That’s not breakfast.” I took a bite of my buttery pancakes and wished I could eat like this every day. We could afford help if we wanted to, but it was something neither of us cared for. But now that I’d had it, I had a different opinion about it.

“It has calories. And I have to eat four thousand calories a day.”

“What?” I almost dropped my fork.

He continued to eat like that number wasn’t crazy. “That’s what I need to maintain my size.”

“I wish I could eat four thousand calories a day.”

“It sounds better than it is. I have to eat two breakfasts and two lunches.”

“Oh, poor you.”

He smirked before he took a bite.

I loved his seriousness, but those little smiles were something else. “These pancakes are fire.”

“My chef is from Paris.”

“Must be nice to have someone cook for you.”

“I don’t have the time,” he said. “Do you cook?”

“Yes, most of the time.”

“What do you make?”

Talking about the dinners I made for Bolton should make me feel like shit, but I felt nothing. “I made braised chicken and artichokes the other day. Mostly casseroles and one-pot dishes so I have less to clean.”

“Between work and cooking, when do you find time to paint?”

I gave a shrug. “I haven’t painted in a while.”

“That’s what you should be focusing on.”

I looked down at my pancakes. “My paintings aren’t very good.”

“How will they get better if you don’t keep painting?”