Page 81 of Into These Eyes
“You trust him?”
“I do. I’ve spent a fair bit of time with him trying to put the pieces together.”
“Well, then, I think it’s a good idea. Can’t hurt to have a man around the house.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Nowthat, I thought he’d protest.
“He’s advised his Community Corrections officer?”
Shit. I’d forgotten about that. I might know he’s innocent, but the rest of the world still sees him as a criminal on parole. “Well, no, it’s only just happened.”
“Make sure he does. And Jamie … if something else happens, you call me, and only me. Deal?”
“Deal.”
By the time I start Liam’s affidavit, Gavin appears in the kitchen dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest.
“Mind if I grab a water?” he asks.
“Of course. You don’t need to ask. Make yourself at home. That’s where you are now.”
He pauses halfway across the kitchen, his eyes pinning me with a look of such gratitude my insides flutter.
“That means …” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, thank you.”
He grabs a glass from the first cupboard he opens and fills it at the sink, reminding me that he already knows his way around the kitchen.
As he brings the glass to his lips, I say, “Wait. The tap water’s not great in this area.”
After I take his glass and tip the water down the sink, I show him how the freezer dispenses ice, then point out the other tap positioned at the corner of the sink.
“Still or sparkling?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m having him on. “Sparkling.”
I show him which lever to hold down, fill his glass and hand it over. He raises it to eye level and inspects the bubbles. “Unbelievable.”
“I like my little luxuries. Since Dad refused any rent, I’ve made some upgrades over the years.”
As he takes a long drink, I actually hear his stomach rumble.
“Oh, God. You’re starving. What would you like?” I rush over to the freezer and open the door to reveal a plethora of frozen meals.
He steps up beside me and stoops down to take a look. Straightening, he gently closes the French doors. “Let me cook something.”
When he reaches for the fridge doors, I slap a hand over them, embarrassment burning up my neck.
“I, ah … haven’t been shopping since last time you were here.”
He gives me a curious glance, then opens the fridge. A carton of long-life milk, tomato sauce and a bottle of wine sit in the fridge door. Other than some eggs, butter, cream and cheese and a few random cans of soft drink that Anika left behind, it’s basically bare.
Glancing over his shoulder at me, he asks, “You don’t like cooking?”
“Actually, I hate it,” I tell him truthfully. “I’ve been the only cook in this house since Mum died.”
Understanding passes across his face before he turns back to the fridge and begins removing items. I watch with curiosity as he places the carton of eggs, then the cheese, cream and butter beside the induction cooktop. Opening the pantry, he extracts some dried mixed herbs and spices.
My stomach dips at the sight of him completely at home in my kitchen. As he grabs a frying pan, I’m reminded again why that is, and warmth spreads through my chest.
