That finally gets a reaction out of him. His eyes narrow and his mouth pulls back in a dark scowl. “I’d stop right there if I were you, little one.”
I should be scared. But right now, the adrenaline is pumping and getting in the last word is higher on my priority list than self-preservation.
Step back. Mama’s coming in hot!
“I may in fact stay away from men to keep myself from getting hurt—but you keep your revolving door turning in order to stop any woman from becoming more than just your bedwarmer. So if I’m terrified—so are you!”
Aaand… boom. Drop the mic.
Uri stares down at me, his jaw clenched and his irises pulsing with heat. It takes about thirty seconds for my sense of victory to subside. It takes another thirty seconds for my palms to start sweating.
What the hell am I doing? My five-step plan has flown right out the window. It’s like I’m asking for my fingers to be cut off.
“Um… listen—”
“Are you hungry?”
The pivot is so sharp that I feel as though I have whiplash. “H-hungry?”
“Come.” He doesn’t really give me much of a choice so I follow him into the kitchen. It’s roughly the size of every house I’ve ever lived in put together.
“Jeez,” I mutter, turning on the spot to take it all in. “You can get lost in here.”
He’s already pulling out pots and pans and a large wooden chopping board. “How about a little light linguini with scallops?”
I raise my eyebrows as he starts opening up the fridge to grab an armful of ingredients. “Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but are you going to cook?”
“Didn’t think I lifted a finger around here, did you?” he accuses with an amused laugh.
Blech… again with the fingers.
“You did mention earlier that you are an egotistical bastard,” I remind him. I inch back out of his way as he starts to heat up pans and boil water. “In my experience, egotistical bastards find someone else to do the cooking for them.”
“I’ve told you twice now that I’m not most people,” he says in a dangerous growl. Then he smirks and the effect goes away, like clouds parting to reveal a rainbow. “I’m not most egotistical bastards, either.”
As if to prove his point, he pulls out a black apron emblazoned with a picture of a sausage speared on a fork. Beneath it, it reads, My meat is a hundred percent going in your mouth today.
I stifle a laugh that would’ve surely sounded insane if I’d let it loose into the real world. Safe to say I did not peg him for the kind of guy who would wear a funny apron.
“You’re blushing,” he observes.
“Yeah,” I mumble under my breath. “What else is new?”
But despite my better judgment, I find myself relaxing. He gets to work, sautéing, chopping, basting. It’s strangely thrilling. I’ve never been much of a chef myself, so I’ve always viewed cooking as something of a superpower.
He doesn’t ask me to do anything other than pass him things or keep time. He cooks in calm silence and I watch in nervous silence and somewhere in the middle of this very surreal night, I realize that it’s been ages since we last spoke to one another. As bizarre as it sounds, I’m okay with that. I don’t feel uncomfortable or awkward or squirmy.
Strange things are happening.
I’m in awe when Uri finally sets a plate of pasta down in front of me. The scallops look plump and juicy, the linguine melt-in-your-mouth good. And as it turns out, both assessments are one hundred percent accurate.
“Jesus H. and all his friends,” I gasp when I take my first mouthful. “You can cook.”
He winks unsmilingly at me. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
I can only shake my head in bewilderment. He’s got me totally confused after only a few hours together. He’s definitely no Boy Scout and I’m willing to bet that a healthy portion of the rumors I’ve heard about him are true. There’s no smoke without fire, as they say.
But no man who can cook like this can be a cold-blooded killer. I mean, that just doesn’t compute.
You’re forgetting the finger in your fridge, wise one.
Sure, but it was sent to him. It’s not like he has any control over the packages he receives… right?
Slippery slope, Alyssa. Slippery dang slope.
9
URI
I should just leave her where she is.
The sofa’s perfectly comfortable. Alyssa doesn’t need a bed. And yet, I find myself staring down at her, unable to leave her on the couch. And just as suddenly as I’ve decided that she must have a bed, I’ve also suddenly decided that I can’t abide the thought of her in anyone else’s bed but mine.