The Enforcer - Kelli Callahan Page 0,15

30?”

“Yeah, close to 30,” he winks.

I hear my heart beat louder in my ears.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking down. “I guess I’m having a hard time at the moment.”

He shrugs.

“Why haven’t you started dating again?” he wonders. I watch as he pulls two ice glasses from the freezer.

“Who am I gonna date?” I wonder aloud.

He turns to face me. “Diana, look at you― you could date anyone. Not to mention everybody knows who you are. For a small town, I’d say you’re famous,” he grins, flashing sharp teeth.

I’m reminded of a wolf.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say, looking away from him and back to the sandwich steaming under the panini maker. “I haven’t had the time. Or the inclination. My therapist tells me I’m finding myself,” I laugh.

“There,” he says, opening the panini maker and revealing two perfect grill lines, the bread a light gold.

“You’re very good at that,” I say, a little surprised.

“I feel like it’s a prerequisite for Italians.”

“What is?”

“Sandwiches, paninis, and pasta.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You cook often when you’re alone, you know,” he remarks, pouring a glass of wine. “You like wine?”

“Yes, I do cook fairly often. I like to dine.”

“I like to dine as well. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes, I suppose it does surprise me. I’m sorry, but I kind of pictured you loitering, and I lost.”

“Well, I’ve certainly seen my fair share of truck stop diners, but it’s not something I prefer,” he says, placing the sandwiches on small plates.

“Thank you.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Do you cook often?”

“I do. I know, odd. It’s something that used to give me terrible anxiety,” I laugh.

“Why is that?”

“Oh, Michael again,” I sigh, feeling guilty for talking about him so much.

“He didn’t like your cooking?”

“Well, he had high standards for everything in life. Food included.”

“God, he sounds like a real dick,” Jake says.

“Yes, I suppose he was. Is that okay to say?”

“Do you ever miss him?” Jake wonders.

“Do I ever miss my abusive ex-husband?” I ask, not sure I’m hearing him right.

“Trauma bonds,” he shrugs. “People get used to the chaos and they want more. Because it’s comfortable.”

“No,” I say, “I don’t miss him.”

Nodding his head, he walks around the counter and stands beside me.

“Do you think we’ll be safe here?” I ask, changing the subject.

“We should be. You know,” looking around his apartment, “there’s a second bedroom. You can take the master bedroom.”

“What’s in your second bedroom?”

“A futon,” he shrugs. “Sometimes I let people crash here.”

“Oh, okay. Are you sure? Because I can always get the futon,” I say, not wanting to be a problem.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take it. You know I’m flexible,” he says, taking another bite of the sandwich.

“Thank you, Jake, I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” I look away. “You know, you’re a lot friendlier than I thought you’d be,” I add, watching his back stiffen.

“Really? And who did you expect me to be?”

“I don’t know, I suppose a gruff caveman who eats diner burritos and passes out on a sofa,” I grin.

And he laughs because it’s true.

“Well, I’d like to think that I’m a man of many layers,” he says.

“I think you’ve seen Shrek too many times.”

“I think that might be the most underrated kids’ movie there is,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a long drink of wine.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

“I love drinking wine baby girl. I’ve been drinking since I was 15, I think I know how to do it.”

“No, wine,” I say, shaking my head and demonstrating. “Wine needs to be savored. You inhale, take a sip. Let the flavors rest in your mouth. Wine is like dining,” I say. “Just think about the pallet. It’s an experience, it’s not something you go down like a beer,” I shake my head and roll my eyes.

“Is that so?” He gives a slow smile that has my heart thumping hard again.

“Yes. It is,” I say, turning away from him, crossing my ankles, and taking a deliberate bite of the panini in front of me.

I can’t afford to be distracted or emotionally involved with Jake or anyone. My life is at stake. Why complicate things with love...?

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, and I look over to see him frowning.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“It’s just that your face changed like you were thinking of something sad.” He searches me in a way that makes me self-conscious.

“Oh, nothing.” I shake my head.

“Don’t worry about taking the last bite of the sandwich.”

He rises from the