Chapter 5
Chapter Five
SHAW
She was beautiful. A magical creature floating through space and time. Graceful, elegant, broken. Like a baby bird unable to care for itself. Monroe is one contradiction after another, surprising me while also leaving me guessing.
Continuing to clean her feet, she reveals more about herself, which only leaves me hungry for more. By the time I’m done, she looks every bit as exhausted as when she arrived, but I insist she eat dinner with me after changing into something more comfortable.
Dinner passes quietly, with only the sounds of cutlery tapping against dishes as we eat the vegetable-beef stew, homemade rolls, and salad Rita has prepared.
From the aromas wafting from the kitchen, I can tell she’s also made her famous peach cobbler.
It was a staple in my house growing up, and it makes me wonder what comfort food Monroe enjoys.
“Do you not like stew?”
Breaking the silence startles the young woman, and she looks up at me. For once, her guard’s down, and I capture the harrowing emotions in her stare. She’s lost inside herself, and I’m not sure if it’s because of her stalker, her mother, her life, or something else entirely.
Leaning forward, she scoops a single piece of potato into her mouth and replies, “I do,” like she’s cleared her plate. Aside from a few bites of her salad, she’s hardly eaten anything.
“Rita grows everything in her garden. It’s free of pesticides and fresh from the fall.
” I’m unsure if she’s one who concerns herself with that or not.
“We buy our meat from a local ranch too. Foods as clean as you can get out here.” I neglect to mention the game meat we hunt and eat yet; I get the feeling she won’t like hearing about that.
“That’s great.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I fucking hate the fakeness of it.
“You know you don’t need to put on a show for me, right? You’re not here to please anybody; you’re here for protection.” Yet I find myself wanting to please her. This is so fucked up.
Monroe nods, nibbles on her dinner roll, then goes back to pushing food around her bowl. Thank god Rita’s not here to witness this scene; it’d break her heart. Not because Monroe isn’t eating the food she made for her but because, obviously, something holds her back from enjoying it.
Finishing my meal in silence, I rinse my dishes and pop them in the dishwasher before saying to Monroe, “I’ve got some things to take care of in my office; holler if you need me.”
Hoping she’ll eat something without anyone watching, I cut a slice of cobbler, grab another glass of peach iced tea, and sit at my desk wondering what the hell this woman has been through.
I’ve seen my fair share of traumatized veterans, and she shares the same look as the men and women returning home from war. That same haunted expression, the slump of her shoulders, and a sad quality to her tone of voice.
Never in my life have I wanted to fix someone, to help them through whatever trauma they’re struggling with.
With Monroe, something is different. I want to help her, to heal her.
And in more than just a friendly manner, too.
There’s no doubt I’m attracted to her; she’s a stunning woman, but it’s more than that. Her soul feels like it calls to mine.
Refocusing on what I need to accomplish, I push thoughts of Monroe to the recesses of my mind while working on payroll before diving back into her mother and agent’s background checks that Draven supplied me with.
The woman is a piece of work, only into pageants for the money. She was never good enough as a child, so, obviously, she pushed it onto Monroe. To the point that the person in my care is burnt out.
Finally hearing Monroe moving around, I slip into the hallway and remain hidden to check out how much she’s eaten and if she’ll snag a slice of the cobbler I left for her. Her dinner roll is missing only the one tiny bite she took, the salad is nearly gone, and I don’t think she took any more stew.
After discarding the remainder of her roll and salad, she searches for a container to store the stew before placing it in the fridge.
Grabbing another water, she stands in front of the dessert and stares at it, temptation written across her delicate features.
I can tell she wants a bite; she must be starving, but she has the will of a pissed-off bull.
Monroe leans down, inhaling slow and deep before biting her lip and reaching for the plate. However, before touching it, she stops, then flinches like she’s been struck and backs off slowly at first. But with one last longing look at the golden flaky delight, she rushes upstairs without stopping.
She fucking wanted the damn thing. Why wouldn’t she take it? I have my suspicions, and I’d like to confront her about them, but that will send her further into her protective shell.