He stops then and stares at the counter for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine. “You’re right,” he says softly. “I apologize.” He turns and gets the bowl out of the microwave as it pings, opens the lid, and starts stirring it. “Don’t worry, I can probably demolish most of this on my own anyway.”
The scent of the chowder drifts across the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. I am hungry; I haven’t eaten anything since the protein bar I had at lunch.
“All right,” I say grouchily. “Just a small bowl.”
He smiles, puts it back in the microwave for a few more minutes, and retrieves some cutlery from the drawer. He takes it over to the dining table on the left-hand side of the living room and lays it out with two place mats, adding the bread in the middle. Then, after the microwave pings again, he takes out the bowl and ladles it into two smaller soup bowls.
“I’m too tired for wine,” I say. “Do you want one?”
“Nah. I haven’t had a drink for six weeks.”
I go over to the fridge, take out a bottle of Sprite, and get two glasses from the cupboard. “Jeez, why?”
“When you said you nearly called me after your date with Ivan, I realized I’d had a few beers and couldn’t have driven outto you, so I stopped drinking.” He carries the bowls over to the table.
Shocked, I bring the Sprite over, and we sit facing each other at one end. “I didn’t realize.”
He takes a chunk of bread. “Do you mind if I’m uncouth and dip it in the chowder?”
“Absolutely not. I’m going to do the same.”
We both dip and eat, and then sigh at the same time at the taste of the creamy soup. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” I admit, scooping up a prawn with my spoon.
“Yeah. I had a sandwich before we left, but I’m still ravenous.”
“That’s because you’re six-four and weigh, like, five hundred kilos.”
He grunts. “I think there’s a compliment buried in there, somewhere.”
Smiling, I look out of the window. I think of that night I went on the date, and something occurs to me. “You don’t think the stalker is Ivan, do you? And he’s upset because I didn’t go through with it?”
He stirs his chowder slowly, thinking. “The messages and gifts started before your date.”
“Oh. Right.”
He eats a mouthful, watching me. “I don’t think it’s him. He was too…” He searches for a word.
“Wussy?”
That makes him laugh. “I was going to say quiet, but yeah, he did seem a bit timid. Very different from your ex.”
“That’s why I liked him.” I lean back in my chair. “I can’t believe you saw that photo of me.”
He drops his gaze to his bowl and concentrates on dipping the bread in. He doesn’t say anything.
“Did my father see it?”
“No. I was the only one that Ella showed it to.”
“She mentioned other photos.”
“He sent pictures of you taken during the day, at your parents’ house, out for lunch.”
“You saw them all?”
“Yes. They’d compile a daily report. We’d analyze all the messages and photos. Test the gifts for fingerprints. Try to trace the flowers. He was smart, though; he always sent them from somewhere different.”
“It’s so weird to think of all that going on behind my back.”
