Page 47 of Art of the Hunt
“How did I survive the transport?” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “How did I survive at all?”
She moved to the base of the staircase, rested her hand on the knobby wood. “You don’t remember?”
What he remembered couldn’t be right.
She sighed. “Why don’t you come down, and I’ll make us some lunch. Do you still want to be a vegetarian?”
What a strange way to word that question. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Because you don’t have to be anymore. If you don’t want to be.”
He slowly made his way down the stairs. She waved at his person.
“This physique, this is how you will remain, forevermore. Regardless of what or how you eat.”
Hunter actually liked vegetables. Sure, he may crave a juicy burger, or even better, a rare steak every now and again, but he was perfectly fine with his current lifestyle choices.
“Are you saying you don’t have any vegetables in the house?”
She shook her head. “I stocked up, just in case.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and waved. “Then lead on. Let’s see what sort of vegetarian food you plan to make me.”
He followed her back the way she’d come, which took them through a dining room with dark wood furniture, burgundy walls, and another row of windows. From there they stepped into a massive kitchen. The walls and cabinetry were knotty pine. The backsplash and the island were fieldstone. Another giant plate glass window offered a different angle of the mountain, along with a stream that carved its way through what Hunter assumed was her backyard.
There were worse places to recover from a gunshot wound.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
“Water, if you have it.”
She pursed her lips, probably because of his tone, and poured him a glass of water.
After adding eggs and water to a pot and placing it on the stove, she pulled various ingredients out of the fridge.
“Egg salad?” he guessed.
She swiped her hands together and leaned against the counter. “I’m not much of a cook. I can grill a venison tenderloin to perfection, but anything more is pretty much beyond my ability.”
“It’s pretty challenging to get venison just right.” One of his sister’s husbands was an avid hunter, and before Hunter made the decision to become vegetarian, he’d had plenty of deer meat, both overcooked and just right.
Artemis shrugged.
“So. Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”
She glanced around swiftly, like she thought for a second there might actually be an elephant in the room with them.
“Figure of speech,” he muttered.
“Right.” She smoothed her hands down her thighs. “What do you remember?”
He remembered the pain in his chest when he realized she’d slept with him because he reminded her of someone else, more vivid than the pain that had exploded in his chest when he’d been shot.
“Was anyone else hurt?” he finally asked instead of answering her question.
She shook her head. “The gunman dropped his rifle as soon as he shot you. Nike kicked him, knocking him over, and then your fellow policemen and women swarmed on him and, I presume, carted him off to jail.”
“You presume? You don’t know?”
