Page 121 of The Bronze Garza

With a spritz of mental self-love, I head downstairs to see what the bronze god is up to, the scent of pizza getting stronger with each step.

Although I can’t eat pizza, I’ve no problem watching him eat it for the both of us. I love watching him eat...and drink...and talk...and breathe... Yeah, it’s possible I’m obsessed with him.

He’s in the kitchen, leaned against the counter in front of the oven, still on that stupid phone. Annoyance bites at me like mosquitoes, and I imagine ripping the damn thing out of his hand and pelting it to the waves outside. If only I were so brave.

As I approach, his gaze coasts over me with heat and lust, and my irritation with him slowly dissipates.He likes what he sees.

I brush past him to the fridge and get out a bottled water. Twisting the cap off the bottle, I ask, “So, all these people who keep calling you, do they know you’re on vacation?”

He slides me a side glance as he says into the phone, “Yeah, that’s her.”... “Okay, I’ll tell her. See you tomorrow.”

“Who was that?” I ask when he ends the call.

“Your father.” He sets the phone down and moves to the oven. “He’s coming back tomorrow.”

I blink at nothing. Tomorrow? My heart sags like an old beanbag. So that’s it. Tomorrow. I thought I’d have more time with him; Daddy never returns from his trips earlier than planned, but rather extends them for longer.

Things are different now, I guess. He’s worried about me. But he’s also cramping my style. I’m not done taking advantage of this hot-as-sin man he hired to keep me safe.

Like a kicked puppy, I watch dumbly as Torin sticks his hand inside a mitten and takes a large pizza out of the oven, setting it on the counter.

“Pizza baking skills,” I murmur sulkily, moving to sit on one of the bar stools. “Another thing to add to the ‘Skills of Torin Garza’ list.”

He tugs off the mitten. “What’s ‘skillful’ about baking a pizza? It’s dough and sauce and toppings. Not that hard.”

It pisses me off that he doesn’t seem bothered that tonight is our last night together. “Not everyone is perfectly multi-talented,” I snipe. “Taking down a bad guy and saving a woman at sundown, then baking a homemade pizza by dinnertime. All while safeguarding some other hapless woman.”

He lifts a brow at me as he takes two plates from the dish rack and sets them on the counter. “Everything okay with you?”

No, I want more time with you! I want you to want more time with me.In response, I jerk a half-hearted nod then gulp down some water.

As he gets a pizza cutter and runs it across the pizza, making perfect triangles, I ask, “Where did you even get the ingredients for this anyway? Did you go to the supermarket or something?”

“Yes,” is all he says.

Arrgh. Chafed by his nonchalance, I take another gulp of water.

He lifts one slice onto one of the plates, two slices onto the other, then he slides the plate with the single slice in front of me.

I stare at it. It’s a fat slice. Pepperoni, extra cheesy, with toppings of sliced olives, mushrooms, spinach, broccoli, bell peppers, and tomatoes. Lifting my gaze from the pizza to Torin, I ask, “What am I supposed to do with this? Pick the veggies off? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just make me a salad?”

With an impassive stare, he plants his palms to the counter, his muscles flexing from the action. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Stop being a bitch to me for two seconds.”

“I’m not being a bitch to you,” I snap.

“You’re ticked off at me for some reason, and instead of telling me what’s bothering you, you’re nipping at me like a little fucking chihuahua,” he says. “Until you’re ready to tell me what’s going on with you, just stop, yeah? ‘Cause I don’t do this childish shit.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” I lie, feeling chastened—and liking it. At least I’m getting some kind of emotion from him now, even if it’s annoyance. “I just don’t understand why you’d put a slice of pizza in front of me when you know I can’t eat it.”

“When I made it, I wasn’t expecting you to be in this kind of mood,” he mumbles more to himself than to me as he takes a seat on one of the barstools. “Do you still like me, Lyra?”

What kind of question is that?“A little.”

“What about when I touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you? How much do you like that?”