that location. It’s a coincidence. It’s just...
“Where’d you go? Denise?”
My heart slams into my ribs before coming to a bruised halt. I feel like my stomach’s in free fall, my imagination reeling. My back is to the kitchen, and I picture him watching me with a coil of rope in one hand and a knife in the other, his bedroom transformed into some sort of torture porn set.
“Ah. There you are. What are you doing?”
I turn, my hands clenched so tightly at my sides I can feel my fingernails cutting into my palms.
“Whoa.” Chris sees my face and stops mid-step, a few feet away. He’s changed into jeans and a navy Henley, the worn fabric pulling across his chest and biceps. There’s no rope. No knife. No evil, knowing glint in his eye. “What’s up? What happened?” He looks past me at the laptop, still closed. “You didn’t find my kinky porn stash, so what’s the problem?”
“You—” The word sounds like a wheeze.
“You need to sit down. You’re really pale. When was the last time you ate?”
I drag in a breath through my nose. He looks concerned. Like a guy who just wants to feed people. Maybe this is just about a sandwich. Maybe I’m so far from normal I’ll never find my way back, even by accident. I blink rapidly. My eyes are stinging, but there’s no earthly way I’m going to cry with an audience.
I feel his big hand splay between my shoulder blades, warm and strong, and let him lead me to the stool he’d pulled out earlier, sitting down, legs shaky. The fear of being foolish has made me exactly that.
“I’m fine,” I say when Chris slides a glass of water in front of me.
“Drink this, anyway,” he orders. “And maybe eat...” He hunts through the cupboards, retrieving a box of mini crackers stuffed with peanut butter. “Eat these while I make you something.”
“Who eats crackers?” I turn the box over in my hand; the bright colors, the silly font. “After first grade?”
“You,” he says, pointing at me seriously. “Eat some, then tell me what happened.” Again, his gaze flicks past me to the laptop. I wonder what’s on there. Probably porn, like he said. But maybe more.
Or maybe not.
I eat a cracker. It’s too salty and the peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth. I eat another one. I like bad things.
I watch Chris’s ass as he bends over to study the contents of his fridge, one hand gripping the edge of the door. He’s so hot. He’s not my type, but I want him. Maybe he’s Denise’s type. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what she likes, besides dogs.
“I’ve got turkey or roast beef,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. If he sees me ogling his ass, he’s gracious enough not to preen. “And two types of cheese—”
“Two?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh boy.”
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I like the line that deepens around the edge of his mouth, the stubble marking his jaw. He turns back and reaches down to tug open the crisper drawer. “And I have cucumber, tomato, and red onion.” He straightens to give me a superior look. “What more could you ask for?”
“Grilled cheese,” I say.
“Grilled cheese? What about all my options?”
“I like grilled cheese.”
He studies me for a moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “Grilled cheese it is. How many do you want?”
“Just one.”
He sticks a pan on the stove and turns on the heat, then grabs a loaf of bread from the cupboard and arranges six slices on a cutting board. I watch him butter each piece, then stick three in the hot pan. The sound of sizzling butter makes me feel warm and cozy and at home. Not alone. Not bored. Not hacked limb from limb.
He carves thick slabs of cheese from a block of cheddar and arranges them on top of the bread, then finishes with the second slice. He holds a spatula as he leans against the counter to face me while they heat.
“Eat a cracker,” he orders again, nodding at the box.
“I’ve been eating. I need room for my sandwich.”
He crosses the short distance and shakes a few crackers into his palm, tossing three into his mouth at once. “I love these things,” he admits. “When I was a kid, my mom wouldn’t let me have processed food, and I desperately wanted real peanut butter. When I got to college, I bought my first jar.”
“You really know how to rebel.” I