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But I know not to be relieved, because if there’s anything I’ve learned about this man, it’s that he has a PhD in hiding emotions. What he shows is almost never what he harbors.
I trudge to his side and take a moment to focus on all the ingredients and dishes in the making.
Some lentil soup, I assume. Mushroom sauce and something with lamb.
When did he even get groceries? More importantly, why does he look like he’s in his element chopping vegetables into minuscule, perfectly symmetrical pieces?
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says without looking at me.
“When did you learn?”
“Early in my childhood. My grandfather used to say that the secret recipe to being a powerful leader is to know when, how, and for how long one should mix the people at their disposal. Cooking a meal is the same. Every ingredient has a pattern and a purpose—to make a perfect meal.”
“Did you just compare people to meals?”
“Ingredients. The meal is the result, as in the money they bring to the table whether by working or indulging in consumer culture.”
“You’re a capitalist pig with a Machiavellian state of mind.”
“Sue my bank account.”
“Just because you’re rich and attractive doesn’t give you the right to exploit people or treat them as if they’re cattle.”
“I only heard the rich and attractive part.” He pauses when he finally lifts his head and focuses on me.
The fire-like storm that ignites in his eyes leaves me breathless. He has a way of looking at me as if I’m his favorite meal. Not a mere ingredient.
It takes everything I have not to squirm or give away what I’m thinking.
“You look hot as fuck in my shirt.”
I clear my throat, completely unaware of how to accept compliments. “I thought this was better than traumatizing both of us by borrowing Gwen’s clothes again.”
“We agree on something.” He retrieves a plate, still appearing completely in his element.
He must’ve cooked for Gwen all the time. Nate mentioned she’s a good cook and an even better baker.
Two qualities I definitely don’t have.
I live on canned food and takeout, and recently, Callie’s burned dishes.
“Were you close to your grandfather?” I ask, then pause at the nagging sensation in my head.
Why do I want to know more about him when I just drew a firm line upstairs?
“Not really, since he died when I was young. I do consider this house his legacy and not my father’s, though. Because my father used it as collateral, lost it, then rebought it. So this is definitely not something he valued.”
“Because he gave it to Susan?”
“That and the fact that he put it up for collateral several times even after he lost it.”
“Susan could’ve manipulated him into it.”
“Unless Susan has black magic talents, she didn’t force him to do anything. He was pussy-whipped but not enough to lose his mind. Still pussy-whipped, though.”
“Is that why you went out of your way to prove that he was senile in the months before his death? A last ‘fuck you’ of sorts?”
