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He turns to Timofey. “I like her.”
“I couldn’t care less,” Timofey bites back.
The man doesn’t seem bothered at all by Timofey’s big grumpy act. He just ignores him and talks to me instead. “The other guys who come through this house wouldn’t recognize quality food if it walked up to them and gargled their ball sacks. I’m an unappreciated artist.”
His vulgarity shocks me, but the man doesn’t even slow pace.
“I mean, food is what we need to survive, sure. It’s a necessity. But there’s no reason it can’t also be a treat, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess.”
“You guess?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
“Well, the fanciest thing I’ve eaten recently is a stuffed crust frozen pizza.”
He drags a hand down his face. “God help you.”
“Somebody needs to,” Timofey mutters. I snap my attention to him, but he is already backing away. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat,” the cook insists. “It’ll help keep your energy up. You know, in case you have some kind of high-energy plans later. Tonight, for example.”
Timofey glares at him, and I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something.
“Bring it to my office then,” he says. “I have work to finish.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I feel the spotlight of attention all the same. Then he turns around and leaves.
The moment he is gone, the man in the kitchen shakes his head. “He gets grouchy when he’s hungry.”
“He must be hungry 24/7 then.”
The man tips his head back and cackles. “It’s not for lack of trying on my part. I always make sure there’s something around here to eat, but he doesn’t often take me up on the offer.”
“A man that big can’t be skipping meals.”
“No. It’s even worse than that.” He shivers. “Protein shakes. He keeps whey powder and blender bottles in the closet in his room. I swear he snorts the stuff when I’m not around.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Those taste like sawdust and chalk.”
“Thank you!” He looks over his shoulder. “It’s Piper, right? I like you.”
“You said that earlier.”
“I’m saying it twice so you know I mean it. I’m Akim, by the way.”
I take a seat in the white plastic bar stool and watch Akim move confidently around the kitchen. “You’re his personal chef?”
“When he lets me be, yes. I end up grilling cod and making bulk batches of rice more than my creative heart would like.”
“I’m not surprised. Timofey strikes me as the controlling type.”
Akim snorts. “You’ve got that right. Which of us went to culinary school? Not the one changing all of my meal plans, I’ll tell you that.”
“If your food tastes as good as it smells, then I’ll never tell you what to cook for me.”
He spins around and holds out a hand for a surprisingly solemn shake. “No take-backsies.”
I shake his hand and laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
