Page 27 of The Guy Next Door
I grab the mozzarella, the grater, and a plate and start my work at the table while Leif rinses the spinach.
Despite everything that’s happened, he’s got this laid-back attitude as he makes his way around the kitchen, but I’m still on edge.
“So how did that chat with Detective Roth go?” I can’t wait in suspense any longer.
What did she tell you?
The truth?
Surely, she hadn’t told him the worst of it if he’s in my kitchen making me fucking pizza.
“It went about as you expected.” He holds the spinach in one hand and finds a cutting board under the sink with the other. “She was pretty direct about everything. Said she didn’t have any reason to believe the break-in at my place had anything to do with the disappearances. Told me we probably shouldn’tbe talking anymore.” As he chats, he takes the spinach and the cutting board to the kitchen island and takes a knife from the knife block.
“That sounds about right.”
He chops the spinach as I grate, and when he’s finished, he says, “Okay, when you’re done, I’ve laid out the other cheeses. I’ll be back in a flash.”
He takes the grocery bags we brought in back to his place as I continue my work. He returns with some kind of pan or cookie sheet covered in a towel and a container of cooked chicken. He’s brought another grater, and he helps me with the cheese, sitting in the chair adjacent to mine at the table.
“I’m guessing you made the crust and sauce from scratch.”
“Is there another way?”
“Shut up. You’re just showing off. You could have easily picked up a crust and sauce from the store.”
“It’s no beef Wellington.”
“I’m gonna assume I understand the context of that statement.”
He chuckles before he turns to me. A tuft of his curly brown hair slips out from under his beanie as he flashes that beautiful, cocked smile. My gaze travels around his face, inspecting his features. It’s nice seeing him up close like this. Unlike the first times we were around each other, he doesn’t even seem to be thinking about his safety when he’s next to me. I like that he doesn’t consider me a threat anymore—at least, I can’t imagine why he’d be over here if he did.
It contrasts sharply with seeing him under far more strenuous circumstances, when I was dragging his half-naked body into the closet.
His hot breath hits my lips, and I study his mouth. What would it feel like?
He winces as he seems to catch on to what I’m doing, and I look away. I wonder what he feels, having some creeper this close to him, watching him, studying him.
“So you really do enjoy cooking,” I say. “Like, more than most people.”
“My grammy used to cook and bake with me a lot when I was younger and I’d go visit her.”
“Is that the one your parents are with now?”
He huffs. “No. That’s Grandma Linda. She’s an asshole. Grammy was wonderful. Loving. Kind. Passed away a few years ago from a heart attack. Her cooking puts me to shame.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
My words seem to catch him by surprise. “It’s okay. It’s been five years now. And we had some great times together—including finally getting her approval for my pecan pie—so that was nice.” He smirks, but I can see there’s sadness there too. That mixture of joy and pain that comes from losing those we love.
It quiets him for a bit as we finish grating. Then he places the toppings on his crust.
“Now we’ll leave it to rise,” he says, setting the oven timer. We wash our hands in the kitchen sink, and I grab us bottles of water from the fridge and join him at the table, where he’s made himself comfortable.
“So…” he says, “I have some new questions for you, now that I’ve had time to reflect on everything.”
“Yeah?” I sit in the chair adjacent to him, watching, waiting for him to get uneasy about how close we’re sitting together, but he seems unfazed.
Nice as that is, I’m tense again, wondering what questions he has for me.