That I understand.
“Cook,” I say.
Her gaze moves to the knife block, then away. I cross to my duffel without making a thing of it and pull out the folding knife I keep for utility work. Then I stop, because handing a woman a tactical blade after she got a photo of her stolen chef’s knife is not my finest idea.
“I can chop,” I say instead.
She stares at me for half a second, then laughs. I can already feel the mood changing in the cottage.
“You can chop?”
“I can follow directions.”
“That sounds dangerously close to confidence.”
“It’s not. It’s discipline.”
“Even worse.”
She opens the refrigerator and starts pulling out groceries. Shrimp. Greens. Lemons. A small bundle of herbs. Good bread from a market bag. The items land on the counter one by one, and with each movement, Kara becomes less client and more woman.
Then, I see the chef appear. Her shoulders settle. Her breathing evens. She washes her hands, rolls up her sleeves, andstarts issuing instructions like she has every right to command the world.
“Rinse those greens. Dry them well. If you bruise them, I’ll know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes cut to mine. “Don’t ma’am me unless you want me to make you peel garlic with a butter knife.”
I take the greens to the sink. “Understood.”
I wash greens and try not to watch her too much. I fail. Kara moves through the kitchen differently than she moves through fear. Earlier, she was careful with every step, every glance.
Here, she is fluid and precise. Heat in a pan, oil shimmering, garlic crushed beneath the flat side of a cheap knife she handles with the resignation of a surgeon forced to use plastic scissors. She tastes with instinct, adjusts without measuring, turns basic groceries into something that makes the entire cottage smell like citrus, butter, salt, and comfort.
I’ve been hungry before. This is different.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Observing.”
“Bodyguard word for staring?”
“Sometimes.”
She glances at me then, and the look should be illegal. Tired, amused, still frightened around the edges, but alive. Very much alive.
“You really don’t cook?” she asks.
“I grill.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is my answer.”
“Cole.”
“I can cook enough not to die.”
