I tilt my head to the side. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yes. May cause issues at my office."
"How so?"
"Men ogling you all day will distract them from work and piss me off." He sits up straighter as the waiter returns, setting our drinks in front of us.
"Are you ready to order?"
"Yes. I'll have the All-American Slam. Lily, what would you like?"
"Nothing," I say in a stern voice.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't eat breakfast."
"You need to eat."
"I said no, don't push it."
I glance at the waiter, who's shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a nervous manner.
"She'll have the Belgian waffle breakfast with sausage and a side of hash browns," Blake says without taking his eyes off me.
"Yes, sir," the waiter mutters before practically running from the table.
I glare at him. I’ll not tolerate being told what to do. That’s been my life for the last nineteen fucking years.
"You realize I'm not going to eat."
"Yes, you are." He takes a sip of his tea, arrogance saturating his expression.
I tap my finger against the table. "Mr. Mason, I would appreciate it if you don't try and pull rank with me. I'm an Interpol agent, not one of your friends."
"I'm not pulling anything with you. You've been with me for two days and I haven't seen you eat . . . at all," he says with a mixture of agitation and concern.
"I eat when I feel like it."
"What's your issue with food? I don't deal well with anorexia or bulimia, so I won't tolerate you starving yourself while living in my house."
"I have no issues with food. I have an issue with men telling me what to do in my personal life," I snap, tapping my thumb harder against the table.
"What do you mean?" He sits forward leaning his arms on the table.
I run my fingers through my hair. Here goes nothing . . .
"I've spent my life being told what to do and how to do it by men like you. I don't respond well. If you want me to do something— ask, don't demand. It’ll go much smoother for both of us."
He regards me, his face blank. Suddenly, he reaches out toward my hand. I barely move it in time and my heart leaps into my throat. My breathing hitches, becoming audible and I stare, wide-eyed, at him.
"Don't."
Slowly, he pulls his hand back, trying to hide the hurt on his face. "Why don't you like to be touched?"
"I just don't. Please, don't push it." I grind my teeth together, willing my heart to slow.
"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice.