Page 14 of I'll Keep Her Safe

I grit my teeth as Bailey rattles off everything I went through with Kurt.

“And the money…” There’s a note of anger in Bailey’s tone now. “He took all that money from you. God, I want to kill him.”

“You and me both,” I mutter. The money bothers me most, actually, because I’d been saving since I was a teenager, working at a local diner back in Indiana.

Still. I can always make more money. The main thing is that he’s out of my life, for good.

Bailey sighs. “Promise me you’ll be careful, and tell Dad about him. If he shows up, Dad won’t let him hurt you.”

I smile. “Speaking of your dad,” I say, turning back to the food laid out on the kitchen counter. “He likes burgers, right? I’m going to cook for us.”

“He does, but not with meat. Did I tell you he’s a vegetarian?”

“What? Really?” Her chuckle echoes from the phone, and my eyes narrow. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m not kidding,” she says through her laughter. “He’s been a vegetarian as long as I’ve known him. Since he was a kid, I think.”

I blink, absorbing this. Mr. Mathers, that huge, towering, muscled hunk of a man, doesn’t eat meat? I want to be annoyed at the money I wasted on grass-fed beef—money I absolutelycannotafford to waste right now—but I’m too shocked.

“If you can make him a veggie burger, he’d love that.” Bailey’s words bring me back to the situation at hand, and I cast my eyes over the contents on the counter, frowning. I’ve made veggie burgers before—lentils are good for that—but I didn’t buy what I’d need. I’d planned on beef.

“I don’t have the ingredients,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead in defeat. Here I was, trying to do something nice, to clear the air between me and him after it felt like we’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’ve already bungled it.

Kurt would jump in at this moment to reinforce that leaving culinary school was obviously the right move, and I frown, annoyed at myself for letting that thought creep in. I touch the lotus tattoo on the inside of my wrist to remind myself how much stronger I am now.

“Check the pantry,” Bailey says. “He’ll have whatever you need.”

I grimace. “I can’t—”

“Sure you can. He won’t mind.”

Glancing over my shoulder to check the doorway, as if Mr. Mathers is waiting there with his arms folded, ready to yell at me, I tiptoe across the kitchen and open the pantry. Rows of glass containers line the shelves, all carefully labeled, and it only takes me a second to find three different types of lentils. He has canned beans, too—black beans might be better for burgers—and every possible spice and herb I could imagine. I scan the contents of his pantry, entranced by the selection of ingredients. As a bachelor, I kind of imagined he’d live off bags of Doritos, boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese. A quick peek into the freezer confirms there isn’t a frozen pizza in sight, and I blink in surprise. Mr. Mathers must cook.

Something about that makes him even more attractive.

Back in the pantry, I retrieve a can of black beans, then grab a container of walnuts. I’ll make my own breadcrumbs, but—

“Does he eat eggs?” I ask, pausing in front of the fridge.

“Yep. Eggs, dairy, all that. Just not meat.”

Perfect.

I grab an egg from the fridge and set it on the counter, then pull on my apron and tie it around my waist—another thoughtful gift from Bailey. It’s made from light blue cotton printed with vibrant red poppies, trimmed with a cute red frill along the top and bottom. She got it for my birthday last year, and I adore it.

As I set about mixing the ingredients for the patties, I ask Bailey to tell me about San Francisco. She talks happily while I mold the patties into shape, then place them in the fridge to set while I prepare the fixings for the burgers. It’s nice to have my friend’s voice in my ear, and for a moment I can almost forget she isn’t here.

We end the call, and I turn my full attention to preparing the fries. The secret to good homemade fries is to coat them in batter before shallow frying them. I find two pans under the counter and use one to heat the oil for the fries before dropping them in, careful not to overcrowd the pan. It occurs to me much too late that if Mr. Mathers doesn’t come home soon, burgers and fries don’t keep well, but there’s a noise at the front door right as I lower the patties into the sizzling oil in the second pan.

Mr. Mathers appears in the doorway, his brow low as he gazes at the mess in his kitchen.

“I’ll clean it up,” I say hastily, wiping the back of my hand across my suddenly sweaty brow. “I figured… you might be hungry?”

His brows slowly rise, as if he’s surprised at what I’m offering. Despite my best efforts, my gaze dips to take in the dirt-stained T-shirt that strains across his chest. He smells like sweat and earth, and it’s an effort to bring my gaze back to his.

“It’s vegetarian,” I add, attempting a smile.

He exhales, setting a basket overflowing with vegetables down on what little counter space is free. I eye them with interest, then flip the patties in the pan, pleased when they stay together. Mr. Mathers still hasn’t said anything, but I can feel his gaze moving across me from head to toe. God, I must be quite the sight, my apron dusty with flour from the batter, my hair a wild mess from the heat of the stove. I focus on removing the first lot of fries from the pan and adding the second, wondering if he will simply turn and leave. And while part of me wouldn’t be surprised, I have to admit I might be a little hurt.

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