ELEANOR
Armando scooped some of the pasta onto his plate, then filled mine as well. The aroma hit me immediately—rich and savory, making my stomach rumble. I hadn't eaten a proper meal in what felt like forever, and this—this looked too good to be real.
He glanced at me. "Take your plate to the dining room and wait for me there," he ordered. "And don’t even think about taking a bite until I’m seated."
I blinked, taken aback by his tone, but I nodded. "I wasn’t going to," I muttered, picking up my plate. As I turned to leave, I paused, thinking I’d at least try to be polite since he did the cooking. "Do you want me to take yours as well?"
He shot me a look that could’ve frozen fire—a look that said more than words could. Did he really think I’d poison him or something?
A wave of irri
