The Seat Filler - Sariah Wilson Page 0,54

customer service. I talked to her today because I lost my debit card at the after-party and I told her I was there with you, which she totally did not believe. And as a parting shot she said to tell you hi. Like I’d made up the whole thing.”

“Wait.” He stopped what he was doing. “You lost your debit card?”

“And somebody used it and cleaned out my checking account.”

“Everything?”

I formed my fingers into a circle. “Zero balance. And don’t go for your wallet again.”

“But you have money in your savings account, right?”

“No, Mr. Movie Star. I don’t have investment or retirement accounts, either. It’s all gone.”

A look of guilt crossed his features, as if that was exactly what he’d been thinking. “I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”

“You’re not responsible for the actions of a criminal.”

He put the lid on the blender and then looked at me for, like, a really long time. It was starting to make me uncomfortable. “People just usually depend on me for this kind of stuff.”

“I’m not in the market for a sugar daddy,” I said teasingly, and that put a smile on his face.

“I’ve given you money before,” he reminded me.

“You overpaid me for a service I performed for you, and that was before we were friends. It would be weird now.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” I told him.

“Okay. But know that it’s here if you need it.”

He turned the blender on high, and his offer touched me in a way I wouldn’t have imagined possible. Not to mention how it sent little shivers of happiness rushing through me.

We were getting into dangerous territory. He had taken out pieces of fish and was dunking them in different bowls that had flour, eggs, and the rice mixture, and he told me about his day. About the little girl who said she wanted to be Aliana when she grew up so that she could marry him (a sentiment I understood all too well) and the little boy recovering from cancer who said he’d grow his hair out as long as Malec’s when it came back in.

The fish smelled delicious and took less time to cook than I would have imagined. He brought a serving over to the table for me, along with a fork. Then he sat down across from me and told me to dig in.

I took a bite. It was incredible. Light, flaky. “Why are you good at everything? This is amazing.”

He grinned. “Thanks. I probably should have made a salad or something, but it was a long day, and I’m tired.”

I was going to tease him that tired people didn’t usually make wild rice–crusted halibut for dinner but decided to be nice.

We ate in silence. It was just too good to let sit and get cold. When we finished, I offered to clear our plates, but he wouldn’t let me. “You’re my guest.”

“Thank you for that dinner. And for cleaning up. You know, I could get used to this,” I told him as he walked over to the sink to rinse off the plates before he put them into the dishwasher. “You waiting on me.”

He smiled and said, “I live to serve.”

I smiled back and . . . I realized I didn’t have a reason to stay. I’d returned Magnus to him safely and he’d fed me both cereal and halibut, and now it was probably time for me to head home.

“It’s getting late,” I told him.

“You’re right.” He came back to the table but didn’t sit down. I took that as my cue to go and stood up.

“Or . . .” He let his words trail off.

“Or?” I repeated, far too hopeful.

“You could stay for a drink. I think we both deserve one after the days we’ve had. What do you say?”

The right, clearheaded choice was obvious. Go home. Pack my bag and get ready to start my new job in the morning.

Walk away from Noah Douglas and all his dangerous sexiness.

Problem was, I didn’t want to.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Just one drink,” I said.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked. “Beer? Wine?”

I grimaced. “Not wine. We no longer speak after this wicked one-night stand we had years ago.”

That made him laugh as he headed for a bar cart in the corner. “Do you want me to make you my supposedly favorite drink?”

“Sure. What’s your supposedly favorite drink?”

“Whiskey sour.”

“I’ve never had it.” Which meant I didn’t know how much alcohol was in it. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Noah had pulled out

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