But the dearth of old food means that suspicious and, frankly, alarming stains are visible on the shelves and crisper drawers.
“Okay,” Luc says in a choked voice that makes me think he’s fighting his gag reflex. Again. “Got any spray-on bleach?”
My spirits lift. “Yes. Plenty.”
He nods. “Right. Put everything you’re keeping on the counter, and spray all in there,” he says, grimacing and waving a hand to encompass the fridge’s innards. Then he nods to the trash. “I’ll take this out. Then we’ll move the fridge.”
He’s doing me a favor. I get that, but I just can’t help it. “Bossy much?”
If his face were an egg, I’ve just cracked it. He stares at me, surprised, and then his eyes narrow. But maybe it’s the curling lashes. Or maybe it’s the almost imperceptible tugging at the corners of his mouth, but I know for sure I haven’t offended him.
But he doesn’t take his eyes from me when his voice pitches low. “Twenty-four seven.”
And now I’m the one who is stunned.
With that, he cinches the red ties of the garbage bag, yanks them into a knot, and lifts the thing out of the trash like it weighs no more than a Kleenex.
“Trash bin is in the garage,” I say, giving him a helpful nod to the side door. I’m proud of myself. My words sound completely steady—as if that low rumble in his voice didn’t just cause a seismic event in my lady parts.
But it did. The ground shifted. Pebbles scattered. And boulders threatened to break free.
I gulp a few lungfuls of air and step deeper into the cavity of the refrigerator, letting its artificial cold tame the blood that has rushed to the surface of my skin.
By the time Luc comes back inside, every shelf and drawer in the fridge is awash in Clorox spray, and I am in a fierce battle against a sticky brown stain that I hope is congealed maple syrup.
“Where’s your temporary setup going to be?”
“Just inside the living room,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder. “We can move the table in there, and I have a stand for the microwave. I just don’t know where I’ll put the dishes I’m going to leave out.”
Luc gives me a confused look. “What do you mean?”
I blink at him. “The one’s we’re going to use.”
He gives me a slow shake of his head. “You shouldn’t leave any out.”
“Why not?” I ask, frowning.
A kaleidoscope of responses passes over his face. Surprise. Curiosity. Amusement. Each morphing quickly into the next without any one holding sway. His mouth opens and closes. I catch sight of the crooked incisor as his dimples emerge. “Millie, where are you going to wash them?”
I turn to point to the sink and stop midway. “Oh.”
To his credit, Luc just sniffs when he could double over at my stupidity. Why is there never a convenient hole to crawl into when you need one?
“You have paper plates? Plastic utensils?” he asks, smiling.
My face makes a big to-do about trying on shades of red. “No, but I’ll get them.”
“Some people set up a basin by an outdoor faucet to wash dishes, but it gets old.” Luc shrugs. “That might be worth it if you barbecue a lot and you have tongs and basting brushes to wash.”
I’ve never barbecued anything in my life. My dad’s gas grill is on the back deck, and, honestly, I wouldn’t even know how to light it. But Luc doesn’t need to know that.
I press my lips together and nod. “Good idea.”
* * *
It’safter nine when Harry comes home, starving, as usual. He strides into the kitchen, finds me packing dishes into boxes with a strange man, and blinks at me.
“What’s for dinner?”
