Where Winter Finds You
“Wait,” she said. “Groceries? That was who was at the door?”
She had jumped for a food delivery? He’d gone down those stairs all 007… for a food delivery?
“Yeah,” Trez said as he shut the slider.
Clapping a hand over her mouth, the absurdity of it all struck her bell so hard, she nearly snorted. And as she vowed to stop—because he was clearly not in a good mood—she really wished she was a good giggler, one of those females who managed to express oh-that’s-funny in a melodic, pretty way. But nope. Not even close. She was a grunter. A chortler. A water buffalo crossed with an army tank backfiring.
Reeeeeal lovely stuff.
And given that Trez didn’t seem amused as he shut the slider and double-checked its lock, she was even more determined than usual to put a cap on it. But dayum. Ever since last night, she felt like her life was in a blender, everything flying too fast and out of control, whirling around, whizzing by, sizzling along. And considering that she had just gotten 95 percent naked in front of him, he’d outed a gun, and she’d ended up jumping out of a house into a snowbank?
All over someone delivering a grub haul?
Locking her molars, she told herself to grow up—
The noise that ascended her throat was nothing she could keep down, and Trez looked over sharply. Like he was worried she’d thrown a pulmonary embolism.
“I am so sorry,” she mumbled, “but this is too funny.”
“Yes, it is.” He smiled, but he lost the lift to his lips as he turned away. “Hey, would you like to eat something?”
Therese watched him open the refrigerator and bend down to look inside. When he stayed there, she knew he wasn’t checking out all the stuff in there. His eyes had nothing but a liter of skim milk, a thing of unsalted butter, and a butcher’s wrap of some kind of meat or poultry to regard.
“Trez,” she said, growing serious. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He closed the door and went over to the cupboard. “Oh, look. Raisin Bran.”
Therese took off her parka and went across to him. Putting her hand on his arm, she waited until his eyes finally swung in her direction.
“Talk to me.”
He shut the cupboard and stepped back, out of reach. His expression was so intense, she was worried he was going to leave or something—or tell her to go. And sure enough, he started to pace back forth.
“Listen,” she said, “if you want me to give you some privacy, just tell me. But if I stay, we’re going to talk whatever this is out. I’m not going stand around in this silence all night.”
Trez stopped and looked over, surprise flaring. Then he cursed. “I’m sorry. I think all the drama is just getting to me, and that has nothing to do with you. And no, I don’t want you to go.”
“Well, think of it this way. At least you’ve put your gun away for the last five minutes.” When he chuckled a little, she took that as a good sign and smiled at him. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“I ate at the club when two of my bouncers got pizza. Would you like anything?”
“I will take some of that cereal, if you don’t mind.”
“Let me wait on you.”
Therese had the sense that he needed something to do, so she parked it at the little table. And as he got her a bowl and a spoon, the unopened box of cereal, and the milk, she liked watching him move. His body was so strong and heavy, but he was light on his feet, not cumbersome and clunky.
Now, if she could just get him to talk to her about what was really on his mind?
Because, no offense, he wasn’t worried about the drama. That was just an excuse to hide behind.
When he sat down across from her, she popped open the box and poured herself a good two servings’ worth. Then she glanced around, got to her feet, and went over to the sink. There was a roll of paper towels on a stand by the faucet and she pulled a section free. Back at the table, she smoothed the square flat.
“Okay, I know this is weird,” she said. “But it is what it is.”
As Trez cocked his head to one side, she started to pick raisins out of the bowl and put them on the paper towel. Using the spoon to help, she sifted through the flakes, making careful assessments.
“Can I ask you what you’re doing?”
Therese glanced up. “One raisin per spoonful. That’s the correct balance, not too sweet, not so bran-y. They overdo it with the dried fruit.”
“I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Cereal is serious business, Trez.” She wagged her spoon. “It’s the same thing with sundaes. You need to get the right fudge-to-ice-cream combination per spoon. It’s about each delivery to the mouth.”
“What about whip cream?”
“On a sundae?” As he nodded, Therese recoiled at the mere thought. “No, no, no. No nuts, no whip cream, no cherry. That’s all a distraction. It’s important to focus your taste buds.”
“And pizza?”
“Cheese only, heavy crust, light sauce.”
“Sandwiches.”
Cracking the top on the milk, she poured a proper level. “Two slices of meat, no cheese, light on the mayo.”
“No lettuce or tomato?”
“See also nuts, whip cream, and cherries.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Yup.” She lifted a spoonful out of the milk. “See? Perfect proportion. And you need to get it set before you moo-juice the stuff. Otherwise things get messy.”
Trez eased back in his chair. “You’re very precise about your food.”
She thought about her crap apartment where everything had its place. Her room back home. Her purse, her clothes, her shoes.
“Pretty much about everything, actually. It’s the engineer in me.” As his eyebrows went up again, she nodded. “I have a master’s in civil engineering. Online school obviously. I was hoping—well, it doesn’t matter now.”
“You were hoping what?”
Therese moved the cereal around with her spoon. “It turns out that there are not a lot of jobs for vampires who want to build public works.”
“I’ve never considered what civil engineers do.”
“Bridges, tunnels, maintenance of natural and built environments. Large-scale stuff. When I was little, I loved to work in the dirt. I was always building things. My father…” As she let that drift, she rubbed the center of her chest and changed the subject. “Just so we’re clear, I am not going to apologize to anyone for being a waitress. Work is work. You do everything the best you can, and it doesn’t matter what it is.”
Reaching for the milk, she tipped the carton over the bowl. “Milk percentage is off,” she explained as she felt him stare at her.
Like he’d never seen her before.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As iAm sat behind his desk in his office at the restaurant, he was supposed to be tallying receipts. Putting in meat and liquor orders for the upcoming week. Planning menus.
Failed it, not nailed it.
What the hell time was it anyway? he thought as he checked the digital clock on the landline phone.
Midnight-ish.
Settling back in his chair, he stretched his arms out and rotated both his shoulders. When that did absolutely nothing to relieve the tension riding up his neck and nailing him in the back of the head, he tried some office yoga by grabbing the edge of the desk and pulling against it. As his forearms roped up with muscles and veins, he reflected that as a chef, he never wore a watch. Or bracelets of any kind. Or rings. He needed to have his fingers and his wrists free of any entanglements, things that could be hard to clean, stuff that could break or be in the way, hindrances of any kind.