Page 58 of Precious Hazard

Most days, I don’t eat breakfast, but today, there’s a gaping hole in my stomach that demands to be filled. Ithas nothing to do with hunger, though. I’m a stress eater, and getting unexpectedly turned on by myhusbandrequires gastronomic intervention. Stat.

As soon as the thought of food enters my mind, a loud rumbling erupts from my gut. Despite my level of dread going through the roof yesterday as the wedding drew closer, I couldn’t stomach a thing. Associating with Arturo DeVille seems to have turned even my own quirks against me. I shudder to think what other new hell actually living with him will bring. Whatever it might be, it will have to wait until I can get some decent grub. Something tells me I’m going to need to keep up my strength.

There’s no one in the kitchen, so I decide to help myself, going straight to the fridge. It’s one of those enormous French door refrigerators, promising an assortment of tasty and comforting things within its chilly interior. Is there a chance that some of the leftovers from our banquet were sent over? My mouth is already watering as I imagine the truffle bruschetta Sienna mentioned. It sounded divine. Or maybe there’s cake. Surely someone delivered at least a few slices of our wedding cake!

Eager, I pull the fridge door open and feel my enthusiasm drop like a lead balloon.

Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Bell peppers. Zucchini. A bunch of chives, dill, parsley, and a ton of other rabbit food. I move things about, hoping to find something other than salad ingredients to pick on. Nope. A carton of eggs. Lots of meat, but it’s all raw, stacked neatly in plastic packaging. Some white button mushrooms, as well as another container of weird-looking purple things. And cheese. A big wheel of pale-yellow cheese. There are also several packages of different types of grated cheese and a container of five other varieties cut intosmall cubes.Holy shit!The slide-out tray looks like a dairy farm threw up in there.

“Eggs it is, I guess.”

I grab three eggs and a piece of hard cheese out of the fridge, setting them on the counter. Just a few steps away and directly across from the breakfast bar is a double oven and a multi-burner stove. The massive appliance is set under a sleek stainless steel range hood. I bet a professional chef would be jealous of this kitchen. I’m reaching into the side cabinet to get a frying pan when my eyes fall on the cooktop surface.

Gas burners.

My throat gets tight, closing up.

Chills break out and run through my body.

With my eyes glued to the stove, I slowly back away. Every shaky step backward is preceded by a rapid exhale of breath. I keep retreating until I bump into a wall.

“You’re making us breakfast?” the wall whispers in that deep, gravelly voice right next to my ear.

I shriek, nearly jumping out of my skin.

“The fuck, DeVille? Want me to have a heart attack?”

“Didn’t figure you for being so skittish.”

I huff and quickly slip by him, pretending to be super busy starting the coffee maker.

“What about our breakfast?” Arturo nods toward the eggs and cheese I left on the counter.

“It’s notourbreakfast. It was meant to be mine, but I changed my mind. Do you have deli meat or something I can use to make a sandwich?”

“I try to avoid processed food. There’s some ribeye you can grill.”

My gaze jumps to the burners again. “Nope. Don’t really feel like cooking.”

“Do you want me to grill the steak for you?”

“And give you a chance to poison me, get rid of me altogether? Not happening.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

Once my coffee is brewed, I carry it to the breakfast bar and perch on the stool on the far side. The location allows me a full view of the kitchen, including an unimpeded line of sight to Arturo, who’s rummaging in the fridge and pulling a bunch of ingredients out. He’s dressed in pressed black pants and a dove-gray shirt with the top two buttons undone. His ever-present gold cross hangs around his neck. Each time he moves and the sunlight streaming through the window falls on the jewelry, I flash back to Arturo’s bedroom. His bed, more specifically.

I mean DeVille’s. Satan’s bedroom. NotArturo’s!

Sipping my coffee, I feign complete disinterest in what he’s doing while secretly watching him. He moves around the kitchen with effortless precision. His every action is methodical, and the expression on his face shows deep concentration. The steak is already sizzling on the side grill. The bell peppers are sliced into strips, and the zucchini is cut up into small cubes before he throws everything into the pan. Next, he grabs a slim, dark bottle of cooking oil and pours a little splash on the veggies.

As he sets the oil aside, a flash of blue flame surges from the burner. My coffee cup nearly slips out of my hand. I grit my teeth and look away, forcing myself to remain seated. Breathing deeply to calm my heart rate.

“I’m having dinner with a business associate on Tuesday,” he says as he tosses in cherry tomatoes and then stirs the food, seasoning it at the same time. Whatever spices he’s using are blending with the aroma of grilled beef and sautéed veggies, and the kitchen smells divine. “He’s coming down from Boston. Unfortunately, due to some personal obligations, he couldn’t make it to our wedding.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’ll be accompanying me. And, you’ll be on your best behavior. Understood?”

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