Page 25 of Snowed In on Valentine's Day

After we both sat down to eat, I asked, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I speak when necessary,” he replied while stabbing scrambled eggs with a fork. “You talk a lot.”

I licked some bacon grease off my lips, and I saw his eyes flick down for a millisecond. “I suppose I do, at least compared to you.”

He shrugged and then took a long drink from his tall water glass.

Then he wiped his mouth and sat back, placing his elbows on the table and his hands together.

I bit into the fluffy, buttery bread and closed my eyes for a moment. “Wow, yum,” I breathed. When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me without speaking. “You’re surprisingly a great cook, Peter. The eggs and bacon are cooked to perfection. And this bread … well, I’m guessing you didn’t make it from scratch, but it’s heavenly.”

“I did make the bread. Thanks.”

My mouth formed anO, but I merely nodded. “Wow, OK. I have to say … you’re not exactly what I expected.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask what you expected,” he said warily as a lock of hair fell on his forehead.

“I … yeah, you probably shouldn’t,” I said with a chuckle. After eating the last piece of bacon, my eyes swept over myempty plate and then his. “This was so good, but you’ve barely eaten anything.”

He looked at his plate for a moment and then shrugged.

“Just not hungry? Or …” I didn’t want to try to speculate. I didn’t like to comment on others’ food habits as a rule, given that many of the women I met struggled with disordered eating—the last thing they needed was scrutiny from me. But it was odd that he’d cooked all this food but then only eaten a few bites.

“I had oatmeal earlier.”

I made a face. “This is way better than oatmeal, Pete—er. Peter, I mean.”

“It tastes better, sure.” With a somewhat reluctant expression, he added, “But I can’t eat this kind of stuff too often now.”

“Why? Are you worried about your figure?” I laughed. This too was odd for me; I never asked or commented on people’s body size or shape issues. But he brought out the worst in me, apparently. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

His face was blank as usual. “Indeed. I’m just careful with my health now. Myfigureis fine.”

More than fine, I’d say. He was trim but not in a skin-and-bones way. More of a lean muscled way. I had caught a glimpse of his stomach last night when he stretched his arms before bed and … let’s just say I agreed: his figure was nothing to worry about. “I guess if you’re a health nut, that’s probably why you didn’t devour my cookies and brownies,” I said, aiming for a casual tone.

“I’m not a health nut,” he said briskly as his eyes narrowed. “Maybe you should stop assuming things about me.”

I flinched. Crap, I’ve offended him. My host, who’d so farnotbeen such a jerk this morning. “Peter, I—”

He looked down at my plate. “Well, it looks like we’re both finished. I’ll take your plate—”

“Oh no, I’ll clean up. It’s the least I can do,” I offered, standing up to take my plate to the sink.

“There’s no need.”

“Well, you have a dishwasher anyway, so it’ll be pretty easy—”

“I’m not running the dishwasher. Like I said before, we have to conserve.”

“Oh, uh, I can wash them by hand though.” I hated washing dishes and considered the dishwasher one of the best inventions ever. But I needed to earn my keep while I was here.

“No need. I’ll do it. Just go back to the other room.”

His tone was curt, and I stepped back quickly. “Oh. I’ll get out of your way, sorry.” He didn’t respond as he filled up the sink with water. I turned to leave but then spun back around. “I forgot to ask. Do you by any chance have a cat? I could’ve sworn I woke up with a cat curled up on me during the night, but I haven’t seen it since, so … I must have dreamed it?”

He turned off the faucet and glanced at me. “Yes, I have a cat. You’re not likely to see him much though, as he’s afraid of people.”

“Oh, is he … did he have some kind of trauma?”

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