Page 52 of The Bronze Garza

“What’s that?” I ask of the tray.

“Seared salmon, garden salad, and lemon-grass tea.”

“You made it?”

“Yes.”

Wow. That’s also a first. He’s always on me about eating, but he’s never so much as poured me a cup of coffee. I suppose to remind me that he’s merely my keeper and not my manservant.

“Well, you wasted your time,” I mumble. “I’m not hungry.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“No.”

“You eat this meal,” he goes on as if he doesn’t hear me, “and I’ll answer your questions about Audrey.”

He sits down on the bed, back against the headboard, and rests the tray on his lap.

“And just what makes you think I have questions about this irrelevant Audrey person?”

“‘Cause you went quiet on me after my run-in with her.”

“Hang on,”—I sit up and cross my arms with attitude—“what are you trying to say here? That I’mjealous?”

He studies me for a beat, then, “No. I don’t think you are.” Before I can stop him, he transfers the tray from his lap to mine. “But I’d like to know what’s been going through your head.”

I keep my arms crossed. “Why do you care?”

He tips his head from side to side, as if thinking about it. “Don’t know. But I do.”

I’m infuriated with my body for always feeling the way it does whenever he’s so close to me. He’s intoxicating and exasperating. Still, being near him is like sitting in front of a fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate on a cold, cold night.

You don’t like him. You don’t like him. You don’t like him.

There’s no chance of me letting him in on my pathetic thoughts, so I pick up the fork, poke at some salad, and stuff it into my mouth.

“Is she your girlfriend?” I ask with a full mouth.

“Thought you concluded the other day that I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Clearly I was wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he says. “Audrey’s not my girlfriend. We just...”

“Fuck sometimes?”

“Something like that.”

“Huh.” I fork in a piece of salmon next. It’s delicious. “So you’re one ofthoseguys.”

“Who’re ‘those’ guys?”

“The despicable kind that sees the opposite sex as nothing more than an avenue for sexual release. Use them and forget them, right?”

Jaw tight, he averts his gaze to the TV, though I know he’s not watching it. Steve Harvey’s voice seems to get louder somehow.

Then, with indifference, he brings his attention back to me and shrugs. “I’m whatever you believe I am, Lyra.”