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He turns back to where he’s buttering and oiling a cast-iron pan. And next to that, my eyes land on a huge, juicy looking, seasoned steak. My stomach gurgles. But I sort of get the impression steak isnoton the menu tonight.
Not onmymenu, at least.
Instead, I step into the pantry and find a jar of unopened raspberry jelly, a half-eaten jar of peanut butter, and some bread that looks…basically not moldy. Back at the kitchen island, I quickly slap the sandwich together, ignoring the delightful smells of cooked garlic and steak simmering in the cast-iron pan on the stove.
I’ve almost finished wolfing down my sandwich—not even realizing how completely starving I’ve been all day—when Jackson finishes. He turns around and sits on a stool at the kitchen island, setting down a plate piled with a delectable looking steak and some grilled potatoes. And of course, his bottle of whiskey.
I stare, my mouth still full of stale peanut butter and crusty bread as I watch him slice into the juicy steak. Jackson pauses with the bite halfway to his lips and raises his steely blue eyes to stab me. His gaze narrows.
“Don’t.”
I blink, quickly dropping my eyes back to my plate.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me with those fucking puppy eyes,” he growls. “You’re not a guest. I didn’tinviteyou here. And this isn’t me putting you out. You are…”
He raises his eyes to the ceiling as if searching for the right word.
“You’re a refugee here,” he finally drawls out with a smirk. “A shipwreck survivor, by the look of it.”
I smile thinly.
“Thank you so much for yourgeneroushospitality.”
“Keep up the niceties,” he shrugs, tucking back into his dinner. “It won’t buy you a steak, but you might just get yourself another PB&J.”
Dick.
One bite later, I’m done with my sandwich. But Jackson seems to take his time relishing each and every bite of his steak and potatoes. With chasing each morsel with a half-swig of whiskey that I can smell across the table.
Though I said I’d pass on the narcotics—and I always do—it’s not like I’m straight edge or some sort of prude. Of course, I drink. I mean, not as much as Jackson drinks. But I’m pretty sure no one on the planet drinks like him.
No one that’s stillalive, at least.
I clear my throat and steeple my hands on the table as I watch him.
“So, how long have you been—”
“Nope.”
He doesn’t look at me as he chews his food. But his head shakes side-to-side.
“What do you mean, nope?”
“I mean fucking nope,” he grunts. “This isn’t an interview. This is my dinner, and I plan on eating it in silence.”
I nod, snapping my mouth shut. But after another few seconds, he abruptly stops and put his fork down. He grunts, raising his eyes to mine.
“Is there a reason you’re watching me eat?”
I blush, looking away.
“You…wanted silence.”
“Silence, yes,” he mutters. “Not to be studied. It’s unnerving to be watched while you eat.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. I won’t watch you.”
