Page 36 of Omega's Formula

Nolan plates the food—pasta with vegetables in a cream sauce—and sets a dish in front of me before taking the seat opposite. Our knees almost touch under the table. The apartment is that small. He shifts his leg away casually.

“Thank you,” I say. “For cooking.”

“You’re welcome.” A small, polite smile. Nothing behind it. His face is carefully blank. I don’t know if the sex has softened him or made him so angry that he has withdrawn completely.

We eat in silence. The food is really good. Better than restaurants I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to eat at. Anna would love it.

The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce rich with cream and garlic and a touch of thyme.

“This is excellent,” I offer.

“Thanks.”

There’s no warmth to it and no pleasure at the compliment. Just acknowledgment, and then more silence.

He’s angry. He has to be.

He takes another bite, chews, swallows. I watch his throat move. The same throat I had my mouth on this morning, tasting his pulse, feeling him gasp against my lips—

I look down at my plate and focus on the food.

“How was your day?” he asks.

I nearly choke on my pasta. He’s asking about my day. I don’t know what he’s doing and it’s disconcerting.

“Fine,” I manage. “Meetings. Nothing noteworthy.”

“Mm.”

He twirls pasta around his fork. I watch his hands—those hands that were in my hair this morning—and have to force myself to breathe normally.

“How was yours?” I ask, because the silence is worse.

“Good. Quiet. I stopped by to see Ellie. Did some reading. Caught up on sleep.” He gestures vaguely toward the bedroom. “That bed’s comfortable.”

“I’m glad,” I say stiffly.

Another silence. He reaches for his water glass and I watch his lips press against the rim, watch him swallow, watch the way his throat moves. He catches me looking. Our eyes meet across the small table.

For one second, the mask slips. I see something flash in his expression and my whole body responds, blood rushing south so fast it makes me dizzy.

Then he sets down his glass and the moment’s gone.

“More pasta?” he asks. “There’s plenty.”

“No. Thank you.”

God, this is torture. I almost prefer when he was yelling at me about the research. At least then I knew what he was feeling. This polite, reasonable version of Nolan is impossible to read.

“Weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow,” he says. “Not that it matters. We’ll be inside.”

We.

“I think we’re allowed to leave the apartment, as long as we do so together and can complete the check ins together.” A thought occurs to me. “I could come with you to the hospital.”

Finally, I get a reaction. A look of horror crosses his face.

“I have no intention of coming with you to see your sister,” I say hurriedly. “I could maybe wait downstairs in that coffee shop of yours. It’ll give me a chance to catch up on work and I’m sure that if we arrange a place in the hospital, we can both get there in time if the Bureau checks in.”