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I swallowed back my disappointment and looked away, scooting forward on the couch so I could get up. “I’m going to make some popcorn, do you want some?”
“No.”
Averting my eyes, I got up and headed into the kitchen. I pulled a pot out and set it on the stove, lighting it. Collecting my extra-large tub of coconut oil and bag of kernels, I tried to suppress the feeling in my chest that I was suddenly not so fond of.
He didn’t trust me. Then again, what the hell did I expect? It wasn’t like anything I found out about him wasn’t given out in drips. Tiny, tiny drips.
I’d barely scooped some oil into the heated pot when I felt Kulti standing behind me. I didn’t turn around even when he got so close that I couldn’t take a step back without touching him. His silence was incredibly typical, and I didn’t feel like saying anything either. I scooped a few of tablespoons of popcorn kernels into the pot and set the lid on, giving it a shake which was angrier than it needed to be.
“Sal,” he said my name in that smooth tone that hinted at a trace of an accent.
Keeping my eyes on the pot as I opened the lid to let the steam out, I asked, “Did you want some after all?”
The touch on my bare shoulder was all fingertips.
But I still didn’t turn around. I gave the pot another forceful shake but his fingers didn’t fall off, they just moved further up my shoulder until he was closer to my neck. “You can take the first batch if you want.”
“Turn around,” he requested.
I tried to shrug off his fingers. “I need to keep an eye on this so it doesn’t burn, Kulti.”
He dropped his hand immediately.
“Turn around, Sal,” he said forcefully.
“Wait a minute, would you?” One more hard shake to the pot and I opened the lid.
The German reached around me and turned off the knob on the stove. “No. Talk to me.”
Carefully, I wrapped my fingers around the long oven handle and took a breath to bottle my frustration up.
“You said a few minutes ago you didn’t have a temper,” he reminded me which only made the moment that much more aggravating.
“I’m not mad,” I snapped back a little too quickly.
“No?”
“No.”
He let out a sound that could have been a scoff if I thought German people were capable of making noises like that. “You called me Kulti.”
My fingers flexed around the oven handle. “That’s your name.”
“Turn around,” he ordered.
I tipped my chin up to face the ceiling and asked for patience. A lot of it. Hell, all of it. Unfortunately, no one seemed to answer my prayer. “I’m not mad at you, all right? I just thought…” I sighed. “Look it doesn’t matter. I swear I’m not mad. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m sorry I asked.”
No response.
Of-freaking-course not.
Right.Right.
Patience. Patience.
“I took the position because I had to,” that deep voice I’d heard a hundred times on television said. “I didn’t do anything for almost a year except almost ruin my life, and my manager said I needed to come out of retirement. I had to do something, especially something positive after my DUI.” Two warm hands that could only have belonged to him covered my shoulders. “There weren’t many things to choose from—“
“Is that because you didn’t want to be in the spotlight anymore?” I asked, remembering an earlier conversation we’d had.
