Chapter 9 #2
I shake my head and change the subject. “What are you making? And do you always cook?”
“Do you always deflect?”
“I guess I’m hungrier than I thought I was.”
He disappears into the commercial refrigerator that’s the size of a walk-in closet and returns with a package wrapped in butcher paper. “Can it get more boring than chicken? It’s that or halibut, and I don’t know how to cook halibut.”
I lean forward and rest my forearms on the stainless steel. “I don’t remember the last time someone cooked for me other than Felicity. It’s impossible to be boring when it comes to me. I’m simple.”
His gaze hangs on me a moment before the chicken lands on the counter with a thud.
He continues to talk as he unwraps it. “Some of the fun side effects of PKD are hypertension and aneurysms. Talk about your life coming to a halt and worrying about shit most men don’t have to worry about until they’re far into their downhill.
I went from eating whatever was available in the mess hall to watching my cholesterol and fat intake.
I went from a beer lover to boring in two-point-four seconds.
My picture is next to boring in the dictionary, unless you’re my doctors.
There’s nothing boring about me in their eyes. ”
The skillet sizzles when he throws in two handfuls of grape tomatoes. Garlic and onion fill my senses and flood my heart with memories I’ve buried. Visiting them is beyond painful.
I push those out of my mind and focus on him. “Your kidney disease ... is it genetic or did you draw the short straw?”
He shrugs as if we might as well be talking about the weather rather than a life-and-death disease. “It’s not genetic. We did the testing when Harlow went through the screening process to be my donor.”
“Hmm,” I mutter and pick up my drink again. “So many short straws in life. I’m sorry you got stuck with that one.”
He gives the tomatoes a stir and turns to face me. “Tell me about yours.”
It’s not a question or a request. It’s a demand.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I keep my straws close to the vest. I prefer it that way.”
He crosses his arms. “I just laid mine on the table for you, and you won’t share even one of yours?”
I shake my head. “What can I say? The shorter the straws, the more private they are. You didn’t tell me you were going to dish up personal secrets with dinner.”
He ignores the food as his stare on me intensifies. “This morning when I saw you roll into the manor on racing slicks and decided to take that into my own hands to fix them for you, I did it because I needed a distraction. But I also did it because I was curious.”
I want to run out of the kitchen and barricade myself in my office for the next decade until everyone forgets about me. “Why are you curious about me?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not curious anymore.”
I let out an exhale. “Good.”
He lifts his chin a tad. “Curiosity isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel.”
My expression falls and whatever was left of that relieved exhale escapes my body. “Why?”
He turns to the opened package of chicken and tosses four thin, raw chicken breasts on top of the tomato mixture. He says nothing and seasons it with crushed red pepper. What he does not do is explain himself or turn to look at me.
“Jett.” His name is a demand on my lips, but it also goes unanswered.
I push away from the counter and go to his side next to the industrial range that’s big enough to cook for an army.
I grab his biceps and force him to look at me.
“I don’t know what you’re doing or what you’re talking about, but I need you to stop. ”
He flips the chicken and tosses some asparagus on top before covering it with a lid. When he finally turns to me, we’re so close, I feel the intensity roll off him in waves. For a moment, it feels like he’s going to reach out to touch me.
The desire to put half the kitchen’s distance between us is strong. In any other scenario, I’d give into that desire, but for some reason I don’t.
I think it scares me as much as our proximity.
“Please,” I beg on a trembling tone. “Car theft aside, you seem like a nice guy. You do not want anything to do with me. Especially not now.”
His gaze drags across my face.
“Trust me,” I whisper. “Please.”
“And that right there...” He lets that thought trail off until the only thing filling the space is chicken sautéing in whatever concoction he threw together.
His laser focus makes me hot and cold all at the same time.
“That’s what takes my curiosity to a new level.
I’ve never given a shit about anyone enough to know their secrets. ”
I hug myself tighter. “Why do you care about mine?”
“Two reasons. One, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t have to give a shit about me. That right there is freeing. And two ... why would I not? Hell, why would anyone not give a shit about you?”
What I don’t tell him is there are many people who give a shit about me, but not for the reasons one would want.
Whatever science going on in my body right now hangs in the balance somewhere between electrifying and dread. My mouth goes so dry, and I have to force myself to swallow over the boulder lodged in my throat.
“I can’t lie,” he goes on. “Feels good to have a new goal in life.”
Lord, now I’m a goal.
Not good.
Being someone’s goal makes it hard to skip town and escape to Timbuktu. I’m not sure where that is other than it’s far, far away from here.
I pick up my water and empty its contents before I point to the skillet with the empty glass. “Do you need to flip those?”
His lips tug north on one side. “You like to cook?”
“It was part of my job. I didn’t have a choice.”
He turns to the skillet but doesn’t flip the chicken or stir the sauce that’s cooking hotter than it should.
All he does is give the skillet a good shake on the iron grates.
“Cooking is new for me. I almost caved on giving a shit about my health right before I located my family. I figured if I was going to die of kidney disease before I hit mid-life, I might as well live it up. That never happened, and now I give a shit again.”
I exhale, relieved to be talking about food rather than me or Jett’s curiosities. “You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
He moves past me to a stack of plates under the island. “A nutritionist and the internet. Just remember, I promised to feed you, not serve you a gourmet meal. If you want that, we’ll eat at The Greenhouse.”
I shake my head. “That’s the last thing I want. It’s why I never miss a meal at Felicity’s. It’s not fancy but it’s made with love.”
He focuses on forking the chicken out on two plates before haphazardly dumping the rest of the contents right on top. “And you’ve never had that?”
For once I can tell him the truth. “Never.”
He slides a plate in front of me on the counter before grabbing silverware and a linen napkin from a clean rack of dishes where they’re ready to be rolled for a new day.
He holds his fork up between us. “I suddenly feel the need to up my game then. I’m not out to nourish the soul, just the body. I’ll see what I can do about that.”
No one has ever cared about my soul. I wouldn’t know what that feels like.
“Come on,” he says as he wiggles the flatware between us.
I frown at the fork.
He rolls his eyes. “I just slopped a minimal amount of ingredients into a skillet for you that came out a mushy mess. Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Sorry.” I bite my lip and pick up my utensil to click it against his. “Thank you for dinner.”
He picks up his plate and cuts into the chicken with his fork. “It’s the least I could do. I did steal your car, after all.”
We don’t even sit. We stand next to each other and shovel food into our mouths. Jett must be as hungry as me, because silence hangs between us in an odd sort of comfortableness that I’m not used to.
My mouth waters the moment the acidic sweetness of the tomatoes hits my tastebuds, and my stomach thanks me for giving in to my car thief.
I can think about what’s next later. But at least I’ll be able to do it on a full stomach.