Chapter 11 Chickenthe egg?
“There’s fresh-pressed juice in the fridge, more than I’ll drink today. Help yourself.”
Theo ignores me as he has since I made the Speedo comment. I think Nolan must have said something to him because I haven’t been put on the naughty step since the banana incident. I also haven’t heard him breathe a word in my direction.
It still astounds me that there was ever a banana or apple incident at all. Any other person in their right mind would have bailed way before now. The man physically attacked me. I’m adventurous and daring. I like risk, but I’ve never considered myself crazy—until now.
Seventy thousand thoughts.
I’d give my right boob to have a five-second glimpse into his mind.
My name is Scarlet Stone and one day I will harness the power to read minds.
“Chicken or the egg?” I put my book facedown on the table and pop a blackberry into my mouth as the smell of sizzling oil and eggs fills the air.
“I suppose it depends on if you believe in evolution or creation. I can see both sides. I’m inclined to say chicken.
I like the idea of there being something after this life—Heaven, reincarnation.
I don’t know. Something.” Listen to me rabbit on. I’m fitting in quite well here.
The muscles along his back make subtle shifts as he scrambles the eggs. How can a man who says nothing be so damn distracting?
“I bet you’re a Buddhist,” I continue. “I’m working on finding peace in the midst of silence, listening to what the universe is trying to say to me.
It’s hard, you know? I think we’re social creatures by nature.
The average person uses five thousand words in their speech and over double that when writing.
Seems like a waste of brain capacity if we’re meant to spend so much of our life in meditation, trying to silence the voices in our head. ”
Theo riffles through the cupboard of spices.
“Are you looking for the salt?”
He whips his head around. Salt? So that’s what it takes to get his attention. Duly noted.
“The one with the blue lid. Use that. You had non-iodized table salt. Not good. Sea salt is the way to go.” Within my library of inspirational books, I have a few on proper nutrition as well. Knowledge is addictive.
“Why are you here?” Theo’s voice is rough with each uneven word, like he hasn’t spoken in days.
“Why are any of us here?”
His eyes narrow.
My lips twist to keep from smiling. My curiosity exceeds the average human’s. I’ve been told as much for years. Amongst my desire to figure out what my purpose has been in life, or continues to be, I can’t control my need to solve the mystery of Theodore Reed.
“Sorry. I’ve been immersing myself in these inspirational books and daily meditation. My brain is stuck in a philosophical state. You want to know why I’m here, in this house, with you. Correct?”
Theo’s word frugality is quite commendable. I begin to feel a little envious of that trait as the weight of his stare bears down with each passing second.
“I’m a thief. Was a thief.”
I didn’t think his stony face could harden anymore, but it does.
I roll my eyes. “Not apples and bananas, so enough with the look. My dad was a thief and so was his dad. We’ve all officially retired—my grandfather to the grave, my dad to a prison cell.”
Theo returns his attention to the frying pan.
“I decided to spend my retirement here since this is where I was born. Well … in Savannah.”
He sits across from me. I can’t believe it.
It’s the first time he’s stayed in the kitchen to eat.
He usually takes his food to the private balcony outside of his bedroom that overlooks the beach.
When he’s out there, I give him twenty minutes before going out to my private balcony, adjacent to his.
As soon as I sit in my sun lounger, he goes back inside.
“You’re a strong swimmer.”
His chin stays tucked to his chest as he shovels in his eggs.
“It wouldn’t kill you to answer me.”
He looks up, fork paused a few inches from his mouth. “Was there a question in all your incessant talking?”
“I said you’re a strong swimmer.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Fine. It’s a compliment. You should say ‘thank you’ or ‘thank you, ma’am,’ isn’t that correct?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile, more like he’s ready to bare his fangs again. “Yes. Ma’am is used out of respect.”
“But you don’t respect me?”
“No.”
“Because I stole your fruit?”
“Yes.”
Unbelievable.
“Well, I wouldn’t have a problem calling you ‘sir’ even though you finger-raped my mouth.”
“I didn’t finger-rape your mouth. If you’d like me to show you what it feels like to have your mouth finger-raped, then I’d be much obliged, but I’d rather stick a sock in it and cover it with duct tape.”
Wow! Why am I still here? Crazy is not a strong enough word—for either of us.
He glances over his shoulder when there’s a knock at the door.
“That’s for me.” I smile while standing from my chair, shuffling across the partially-tiled floor in my flip-flops.
“Ms. Stone?”
I nod with a huge grin.
“Where would you like them?”
“Uh …” I look back at Theo, but he’s resumed eating his breakfast again like I don’t exist. “If you wouldn’t mind taking them to the front room for now, I’ll put them where I want them later. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The deliveryman carries in the first plant—one of seventeen that I ordered.
Theo gives him a quick glance, but he doesn’t say a word until the fifth plant is ushered past him to the front room.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Oh, um …” The deliveryman looks back at me as I continue to hold open the door.
Theo follows his gaze.
“Did you order all of these?” Theo pins me with his usual scowl.
“Yes, sir.” I wink. “He has twelve more to bring inside.”
The deliveryman jumps when Theo’s fork clanks against his plate two seconds before his chair screeches along the floor as he unfolds all, seemingly, ten feet of himself.
I don’t blink. Not even as the law approaches me.
He can’t murder me with a witness in the room.
What if his towel fell from his waist? Something tells me he wouldn’t move.
Why the hell did that thought go through my mind?
If he takes one more step, I’ll be nothing more than something he flicks off the bottom of his giant foot.
“Listen, woman, this isn’t your house. You will not fill it with a bunch of fucking flowers.”
After I’m convinced his towel is secure, my eyes retrace their path back to his. The name Kathryn is tattooed in elegant script along his bicep, under a gray gravestone with a single red rose across it. I’m going to assume Kathryn died.
“Scarlet.”
“What?” His face contorts with irritation.
“My name … it’s Scarlet, not woman. We’ve lived together for a week and you’ve never asked my name. Our opportunities for a proper introduction have been squashed by your …”
His eyes widen a fraction. “My?”
I shrug. “Your barmy attitude, like you’ve lost the plot.”
“Lost the plot?”
My attempt to hide my exasperation is rubbish. A deep sigh breezes past my lips. “Yes, like … you’ve been acting ridiculously.”
He gets in my face, really in my face. “Every word that comes out of your mouth drives me fucking crazy, but not as fucking crazy as the way you say everything.”
“Sorry? How do I say everything?”
“Like you think you’re the fucking Queen!”
“I’m not the Queen. I’m just British.”
“Then just don’t speak.”
“Please ignore Mr. Prick and bring in the rest of my plants.” I duck out of Theo’s visual hold on me.
The deliveryman moves in slow motion, keeping his wide eyes on Theo the whole time. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
The second we’re alone, I feel the shadow of Theo’s foot getting ready to squash me. I should run. But … fuck him. For the next six months this is my house.
“I’m sorry Kathryn died.”
He steps forward so fast, I stumble backwards. The wall saves me from falling onto my bum.
“If you ever say her name again, I will end you.”
My heart takes up permanent residency in my throat. I bet he can see it pulsing in my neck. Once I manage to find a sliver of space to speak past it, I whisper, “Sorry, I’m afraid there’s a queue.”
I blink for the first time since he backed me into the wall. His eyebrows pull tight, like my response somehow confuses or pains him. It can’t be pain. Monsters don’t feel pain.
As the deliveryman brings in the rest of my plants, Theo and I stand toe to toe, sharing thick, tension-filled air.
Why is he so sad? Because that’s what he is.
Beneath the brute anger, jagged words, and threats, Theodore Reed is a sad man.
What does he see when he looks into my eyes?
I can’t find myself. I no longer see my own reflection in the mirror.
It’s unimaginable that he sees anything beyond my dark skin and unruly hair.
All I see before me is a ridged man with a hardened soul and symbols of his grief etched along his skin in bold ink. My dad never inked himself, but he used to say that people tattooed their skin so the rest of the world could see their hopes and dreams, their fears, their past, their grief.
There’s not enough skin on my body to let my emotions bleed through for the world to see. I’m a bit envious of everyone who can do that.
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
The trance is broken. Theo steps back, his eyes averting to the floor for a brief moment before he turns and disappears to his room.
“Thank you,” I reply in a shaky voice that mirrors the way my body feels after yet another indescribable encounter with Theodore Reed.
When the back door clicks shut, I close my eyes, a breath of a whisper desperate to release.
“Oh. My. God.” Seven billion people over seven continents and I land on the other side of the ocean in this house with this man.
My life may very well end in the presence of the beast of a man who seems to truly hate me.
Why? It would seem, simply because I exist.