Page 55 of If You Claim Me

His jaw tenses, and his gaze shifts to the side.

My smile fades, and I sit up straighter. “Oh my gosh, were you actually graded on your table manners?”

Last year when we spent Christmas Eve with Roman, eating Thai takeout, I was entirely too fascinated by his impeccable table manners. Especially when I was used to Flip and the way he protects his food like someone’s going to steal it before he can finish. Connor is meticulous to the point of being rigid. But maybe it’s not because he wants to be. Maybe that’s how hehasto be.

“My father kept a wooden spoon on the table,” he admits.

I glance at his elegant hands, his knuckles scarred in places. I assumed hockey was the culprit, but maybe I’m wrong. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He forces a smile. “Good table manners were an expectation in my house, and I always had to learn everything the hard way.”

“It’s not fine, Connor.” I cover his hand with mine as a long-buried memory surfaces, and for some reason, I feel compelled to share it with him. Maybe so he doesn’t feel alone? “One of the foster homes I stayed in briefly was very…strict. Especially with portion control. It was…tough.” We were always hungry. It made us feral. Unruly. Punishable. “On my first day, one of the boys tried to sneak an extra roll, and the foster dad hit him so hard the wooden spoonandthe boy’s hand broke.”

His name was Wyatt. He’d been eight at the time, and I’d been seven. By then the number of foster homes I’d been to was nearing double digits.

Connor’s fingers close around mine, voice low and gritty. “How long were you there?”

“I made sure I was enough of a problem that they got rid of me almost right away.” Bad behavior could be effective, but it often came with painful consequences. Sometimes they wereworth it, but not always. By the time I was eight, I’d learned that saying the right thing in front of the right person could be just as good a way to escape the bad stuff.

“I did the same,” he whispers. “But they never really got rid of me.”

“Lucky for me, I guess.” Our worlds are so different, but now I know it’s true—underneath we’re the same. Broken. Discarded by the people who were supposed to love us the most. But Connor has been turned into a villain, and I became a savior. Maybe even now I’m becoming his. Would it be so bad to have my own villain? To be a soft place for him to land?

“More for me, I think.”

I shake my head. “Always so content to be the bad guy.”

“I’m good at it.”

“You’re not the only one.” I move my chair so I’m beside him, shove all my silverware into a pile, and prop my elbows on the table.

He laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound.

The server brings the next course, and his eyes go wide at the mess the table has become. He steps in to fix the silverware.

Connor raises a hand. “Leave it, please. My fiancée is being a menace.” He winks at me, and I grin back.

“Of course, Mr. Grace.” He removes our plates and sets something artful and unidentifiable in front of us. I miss part of the explanation, too busy trying to comprehend what’s in front of me.

I wait until the server disappears before I say anything. “This looks like pretty cat food.”

Connor just about falls out of his chair, he’s laughing so hard.

I vow immediately to try my hardest to put a smile on his usually serious face. I defend my position. “It really does seem like something a cat would happily consume.”

He dabs at his eyes with his napkin, still grinning. “Please say that in front of my mother.”

“Uh, never. But you can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong about the appearance.”

“Are you going to explain this, or do I have to look it up?”

“It’s steak tartare.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That’s raw beef, isn’t it?”

“Mostly raw, yes.”