The silence between us grows heavy, oppressive, like a thick fog that settles over everything in its path. I keep my eyes averted, focusing on the intricate patterns of the tablecloth, anything to escape the intensity of his. Minutes tick on and I try desperately to ignore how he keeps tracking me between bites, clinical as usual yet different somehow. I continue to munch through the silence, driven by hunger and the need to avoid his gutting stare.
I’m far more ravished than I realize, finishing every last bit of food I claimed. Too soon, I clear my plate, leaning back with a small sigh.
“Are you satisfied?” Frost asks. Somehow that question feels extremely charged, even though he’s clearly talking about the dinner we just ate.
I have to swallow around an invisible sweet potato chunk before rasping, “Yes.”
I reach for the pitcher, too close to him for comfort, but he interrupts my attempt. “Wait twenty minutes before any drinking water. Give your food a little time to go down before you start diluting your stomach acid.”
My hand retracts slowly, a strange sensation twisting my stomach that has nothing to do with acid or hunger.