Chapter 7 #2
“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to stop myself.
He did cook for me, after all. It would be rude as hell to not thank him for it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see his mouth twitch in a smile, but he chases it away before I can tell for sure.
“This smells better than anything I’ve ever thrown in the microwave.
” I don’t know why I’m trying to joke or lighten the mood. Probably a survival tactic.
“I would hope so,” he replies, eyes on his food as he spins pasta around his fork. “Since this didn’t come out of a box.”
I don’t answer him this time. Instead, I take a few small, separate bites of food. First the chicken, then the broccoli, and finally the noodles that are so much better than any box I’ve bought. Though, admittedly, that could be my cooking of them, versus anything wrong with boxed noodles.
“Clearly I’m shopping in the wrong section of the grocery store,” I mutter, unable to not appreciate how good the sauce tastes on everything.
“Why’s that?” He chances a glance up at me, one brow raised as he appraises the huge bite of noodles and chicken that’s halfway to my mouth. I see it again—that small twitch of a grin on his lips—before it’s gone again.
“Because no box of noodles or any sauce I’ve bought has ever tasted this good.” I slam the whole thing into my mouth without politeness, and if this were any other situation, I would moan dramatically at how good it tastes.
Jed, for his part, finally grins, though he ducks his head and drops the edge of his fork down to his plate, where it sinks into noodles. “It’s not that good,” he argues, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to be modest. “But uh, it’s not out of a box or a jar.”
“You’re not seriously about to tell me you made this.” The words are out before I can stop them. “Like, made this. From scratch.”
He looks up at me again, searching my face, then gestures over his shoulder to the counter where I see a few different pots and pans, and a weird, square-like appliance with a handle on the side.
“It’s not that hard,” he assures me, before I can say a word.
“Pasta doesn’t take long to make. And I could make Alfredo sauce in my sleep.
It’s not…” He looks around again, as if he doesn’t know what to say. “It’s not a big deal, Saylor. Promise.”
I can’t answer. How can I, when my mind is blown at the idea of this man, this murderer, just casually cooking me dinner completely from scratch like he’s trying to impress me or…or….
Like this is a date.
The thought makes my fingers go numb, but I clench my fork harder and wind noodles around it again. “My meals consist of microwavable dinners, popcorn, and Lunchables,” I inform him at last, finding it a bit easier to meet his gaze this time when his eyes flick up to catch mine.
God, how are they so blue?
“Lunchables?” he repeats, his eyes narrowing. “You mean the fancy kind, right? Wheat crackers, better cheese, meat not processed completely to hell?” His brows rise by increments, like he’s building hope with every movement. “Right?”
“Wrong.” I point my fork at him, then stab it into a strip of chicken. “We’re talking turkey and cheese on crackers with a Nestle crunch bar. Pizza with sauce lacking, probably, real tomatoes.”
The disgust on his face is priceless, and I fight the small smile that twitches at my own lips. But this shouldn’t be so…easy. It shouldn’t feel like he’s my friend. Like I’m interested. Because I’m definitely, irrevocably, not interested in anything other than getting the hell out of here.
But even that thought isn’t enough to turn the food to ash in my mouth, so I keep eating. He’s content enough to eat quietly, though every time I look at him, his eyes flick up to mine like he’s just waiting for me to do or say something.
“I guess you, uh…locked up the chainsaw, huh?” I ask at last, when my bowl is two-thirds empty. “Along with all the knives?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, giving my question a few moments’ thought.
“Yeah, I did. Sorry, Saylor.” I have no idea why he’s apologizing to me, but I watch as he sits back with a soft huff, his plate empty.
“I figured the knives you actually could and would do damage with. And I don’t want to wake up with a slit throat. ”
“That’s…fair.” I sit back, having picked out all the chicken, most of the noodles, and some of the broccoli from my bowl.
I can’t help wondering if he’s a good cook across the board.
Not that I intend on finding out. “But umm.” I suck in a sharp breath, close my eyes, and barrel onward. “I want to ask—”
“You want to know why you’re here. Why I didn’t kill you. What I’m going to do with you?” He taps his fingers on the counter as he speaks, in a rhythm that threatens to get stuck in my head. “And I’m more than willing to answer all of that. As long as you do me one favor.”
I open my eyes sharply, lips parting, but he cuts me off before I can say a word.
“I want you to listen to me explain what happened at the swamp, and why you really shouldn’t be afraid of me, or feel sorry for him.”